'There is hope of a tree, if it be cut down, that it will sprout again, and that the tender branch thereof will not cease. Though the root thereof wax old in the earth, and the stock thereof die in the ground, yet through the scent of water it will bud, and bring forth boughs like a plant. But man dieth and wasteth away; yea, man giveth up the ghost, and where is he?
Job.
I.
Born in anguish, nursed in sorrow,
Journeying through a shadowy span;
Fresh with health to-day—to-morrow
Cold and lifeless!—such is man.
Scarce produced to light, ere dying—
Like the fancied vision flying;
Scarcely budding forth, when blighted
'Dust to dust' again united!
II.
Richly shines the rainbow, glowing,
Lightly laughs the morning beam;
Sweetly breathes the flowret, blowing,
Deeply rolls the mountain stream:
But the heavenly bow hath faded,
And the morning beam is shaded;
And to earth the flower hath hasted,
And the mountain stream is wasted.
III.
Yet though passed awhile, these lie not
Ever in Destruction's chain;
Though the flowers may fade, they die not—
Spring shall wake their buds again:
Morning's smile again shall brighten,
And the storm the rainbow lighten;
And the torrent (summer finished,)
Roll its waters undiminished.
IV.
Man alone, when death hath bound him,
Moulders in the silent grave:
Of the friends who were around him,
None to succor, none to save!
Then when night and gloom assail thee,
And thy strength and glory fail thee,
And thy boasted beauty waneth,
Cold—in darkness—what remaineth?