| |
| FEW are thy days and full of woe, | |
| O man of woman born! | |
| Thy doom is written, dust thou art, | |
| And shalt to dust return. | |
| |
| Determined are the days that fly | 5 |
| Successive o’er thy head; | |
| The numbered hour is on the wing, | |
| That lays thee with the dead. | |
| |
| Alas! the little day of life | |
| Is shorter than a span; | 10 |
| Yet black with thousand hidden ills | |
| To miserable man. | |
| |
| Gay is thy morning, flattering Hope | |
| Thy sprightly step attends; | |
| But soon the tempest howls behind, | 15 |
| And the dark night descends. | |
| |
| Before its splendid hour the cloud | |
| Comes o’er the beam of light; | |
| A pilgrim in a weary land, | |
| Man tarries but a night. | 20 |
| |
| Behold, sad emblem of thy state, | |
| The flowers that paint the field, | |
| Or trees that crown the mountain’s brow, | |
| And boughs and blossoms yield. | |
| |
| When the chill blast of winter blows, | 25 |
| Away the summer flies, | |
| The flowers resign their sunny robes, | |
| And all their beauty dies. | |
| |
| Nipt by the year the forest fades, | |
| And, shaking to the wind, | 30 |
| The leaves toss to and fro, and streak | |
| The wilderness behind. | |
| |
| The winter past, reviving flowers | |
| Anew shall paint the plain; | |
| The woods shall hear the voice of Spring, | 35 |
| And flourish green again. | |
| |
| But man departs this earthly scene, | |
| Ah! never to return: | |
| No second spring shall e’er revive | |
| The ashes of the urn. | 40 |
| |
| Th’ inexorable doors of death | |
| What hand can e’er unfold? | |
| Who, from the cerements of the tomb | |
| Can raise the human mould? | |
| |
| The mighty flood that rolls along | 45 |
| Its torrents to the main, | |
| The waters lost can ne’er recall | |
| From that abyss again. | |
| |
| The days, the years, the ages, dark | |
| Descending down to night, | 50 |
| Can never, never be redeemed | |
| Back to the gates of light. | |
| |
| So man departs the living scene | |
| To night’s perpetual gloom; | |
| The voice of morning ne’er shall break | 55 |
| The slumbers of the tomb. | |
| |
| Where are our fathers? whither gone | |
| The mighty men of old? | |
| The patriarchs, prophets, princes, kings, | |
| In sacred books enrolled? | 60 |
| |
| Gone to the resting-place of man, | |
| The everlasting home, | |
| Where ages past have gone before, | |
| Where future ages come. | |
| |
| Thus Nature poured the wail of woe, | 65 |
| And urged her earnest cry; | |
| Her voice in agony extreme | |
| Ascended to the sky. | |
| |
| Th’ Almighty heard; then from his throne | |
| In majesty he rose, | 70 |
| And from the heaven, that opened wide, | |
| His voice in mercy flows. | |
| |
| When mortal man resigns his breath, | |
| And falls, a clod of clay, | |
| The soul immortal wings its flight | 75 |
| To never-setting day. | |
| |
| Prepared of old for wicked men | |
| The bed of torment lies; | |
| The just shall enter into bliss | |
| Immortal in the skies. | 80 |
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