Backsliding Israel found a double guide, A pillar and a cloud-by day, by night; Yet in my desperate dangers, which be far Would cut my passage through the empty air; Mine eyes being sealed, how would I mount above The reach of danger and forgotten care! My backward eyes should ne'er commit that fault, Great God! Thou art the flowing spring of light; I'll trust my God, and Him alone pursue; His law shall be my path, his heavenly light my clue. THE LONG-SUFFERING OF GOD. EVEN as a nurse, whose child's imperfect pace THE LAST TRUMPET. SEE how the latter trumpet's dreadful blast And scrambles from his melting throne! Hark how the direful hand of vengeance tears The sweltering clouds, whilst heaven appears A circle filled with flame, and centered with his fears. THE BREVITY OF LIFE. BEHOLD, How short a span Was long enough of old, To measure out the life of man; In those well-tempered days, his time was then Surveyed, cast up, and found but threescore years and ten. Alas! And what is that! They come, and slide, and pass, Before my pen can tell thee what; The posts of time are swift, which, having run Their seven short stages o'er, their shortlived task is done. Our days To sleep, to antic plays And toys, until the first stage end: Twelve waning moons, twice five times told, we give To unrecovered loss, we rather breathe than live. We spend A ten years' breath Before we apprehend What 'tis to live, or fear a death: Our childish dreams are filled with painted joys, Which please our sense awhile, and waking prove but toys. How vain, How wretched is Poor man, that doth remain A slave to such a state as this! His days are short at longest, few at most: They be The secret springs, That make our minutes flee On wheels more swift than eagles' wings: Our life's a clock, and every gasp of death Breathes forth a warning grief, till Time shall strike a death. How soon Our new-born light Attains to full-aged noon! And this, how soon, to gray-haired night! We spring, we bud, we blossom, and we blast, Ere we can count our days, our days they flee so fast. They end When scarce begun ; And ere we apprehend That we begin to live, our life is done : Man, count thy days, and if they fly too fast For thy dull thoughts to count, count every day thy last. AGE. So have I seen the illustrious prince of light Rising in glory from his crocean bed, And trampling down the horrid shades of night, Advancing more and more his conquering head; So have I seen a well-built castle stand Whose active power commands both sea and land, At length her aged foundation fails her trust, So have I seen the blazing taper shoot Her golden head into the feeble air; Whose shadow-gilding ray, spread round about, Makes the foul face of black-browed darkness fair; Till at the length her wasting glory fades, And leave the night to her inveterate shades. E'en so this little world of living clay, The pride of nature glorified by art; That glorious sun, that whilome shone so bright, Is now e'en ravished from our darkened eyes; Lies now a monument of her own disguise; Poor bedrid man! where is that glory now, Thy youth so vaunted? where that majesty, Which sat enthroned upon thy manly brow? Where, where that braying arm? that daring eye? Thy drooping glory's blurred, and prostrate lies, Whilst fear perplexes thy distracted brow; Thus man that's born of woman can remain But a short time! his days are full of sorrow His life's a penance, and his death's a pain! Springs like a flower to-day, and fades to-morrow! His breath's a bubble, and his day's a span: 'Tis glorious misery to be born a man! VAIN - BOASTING. CAN he be fair, that withers at a blast? Why bragg'st thou then, thou worm of five foot long? Thou'rt neither fair, nor strong, nor wise, nor rich, nor young. FROM ELEGIES ON DR. AYLMER. FAREWELL those eyes, whose gentle smiles forsook Farewell those cheerful eyes, that did erewhile Farewell those eyes, that to their joyful guest Proclaimed their ordinary fare, a feast. Farewell those eyes, the loadstars late whereby The graces sailed secure from eye to eye. Farewell, dear eyes, bright lamps-O who can tell |