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| THOU whom chance may hither lead, | |
| Be thou clad in russet weed, | |
| Be thou deckt in silken stole, | |
| Grave these maxims on thy soul. | |
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| Life is but a day at most, | 5 |
| Sprung from night, in darkness lost: | |
| Hope not sunshine every hour, | |
| Fear not clouds will always lour. | |
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| Happiness is but a name, | |
| Make content and ease thy aim, | 10 |
| Ambition is a meteor-gleam; | |
| Fame, an idle restless dream; | |
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| Peace, the tend’rest flow’r of spring; | |
| Pleasures, insects on the wing; | |
| Those that sip the dew alone— | 15 |
| Make the butterflies thy own; | |
| Those that would the bloom devour— | |
| Crush the locusts, save the flower. | |
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| For the future be prepar’d, | |
| Guard wherever thou can’st guard; | 20 |
| But thy utmost duly done, | |
| Welcome what thou can’st not shun. | |
| Follies past, give thou to air, | |
| Make their consequence thy care: | |
| Keep the name of Man in mind, | 25 |
| And dishonour not thy kind. | |
| Reverence with lowly heart | |
| Him, whose wondrous work thou art; | |
| Keep His Goodness still in view, | |
| Thy trust, and thy example, too. | 30 |
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| Stranger, go! Heaven be thy guide! | |
| Quod the Beadsman of Nidside. | |
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