Sad is the wane of beauty to the fair,
Sad is the flux of fortune to the proud,
Sad is the look dejected lovers wear,
And sad is worth beneath detraction's cloud.
Sad is our youth's inexorable end,
Sad is the bankruptcy of fancy's wealth,
Sad is the last departure of a friend,
And sadder than most things is loss of health.
And yet more sad than these to think upon
Is this—the saddest thought beneath the sun—
Life, flowing like a river, almost gone
Into eternity, and nothing done.
Let me be spared that bootless last regret:
Let me work now; I may do something yet.
THE HOUSE-HUNTER.
As one who finds his house no longer fit,
Too narrow for his needs, in nothing right,
Wanting in every homelike requisite,
Devoid of beauty, barren of delight,
Goes forth from door to door and street to street,
With eager-eyed expectancy to find
A new abode for his convenience meet,
Spacious, commodious, fair, and to his mind;
So living souls recurrently outgrow
Their mental tenements; their tastes appear
Too sordid, and their aims too cramped and low.
And they keep moving onward year by year,
Each dwelling in its turn prepared to leave
For one more like the mansion they conceive.
ON MOVING INTO A NEW HOUSE.
Heaven bless this new abode; defend its doors
Against the entry of malignant sprites—
Gaunt Poverty, pale Sickness, Care that blights;
And o'er its thresholds, like the enchanted shores
Of faery isles, serene amid the roars
Of baffled seas, let in all fair delights
(Such as make happy days and restful nights)
To tread familiarly its charmèd floors.
Within its walls let moderate Plenty reign,
And gracious Industry, and cheerful Health:
Plenish its chambers with Contentment's wealth,
Nor let high Joy its humble roof disdain;
Here let us make renewal of Love's lease,
And dwell with Piety, who dwells with Peace.