WHAT IS LIFE?

WHAT is the existence of man's life
But open war or slumber'd strife?
Where sickness to his sense presents
The combat of the elements,
And never feels a perfect peace

Till death's cold hand signs his release.

It is a storm-where the hot blood
Outvies in rage the boiling flood:
And each loud passion of the mind
Is like a furious gust of wind,

Which beats the bark with many a wave,
Till he casts anchor in the grave.

It is a flower-which buds and grows,
And withers as the leaves disclose;
Whose spring and fall faint seasons keep,
Like fits of waking before sleep,
Then sinks into that fatal mould
Where its first being was enroll'd.

It is a dream-whose seeming truth
Is moralised in age and youth;
Where all the comforts he can share
As wandering as his fancies are,

Till in a mist of dark decay

The dreamer vanish quite away.

It is a dial-which points out
The sunset as it moves about;
And shadows out in lines of night
The subtle stages of Time's flight,
Till all-obscuring earth hath laid
The body in perpetual shade.

It is a weary interlude—

Which doth short joys, long woes, include:
The world the stage, the prologue tears;
The acts vain hopes and varied fears ;
The scene shuts up with loss of breath,
And leaves no epilogue but Death!

DR HENRY KING, 1591-1669.

TIME THE COMFORTER.

O TIME! Who know'st a lenient hand to lay Softest on sorrow's wound, and slowly thence (Lulling to sad repose the weary sense)

The faint pang stealest, unperceived, away!
On thee I rest my only hope at last,

And think when thou hast dried the bitter tear
That flows in vain o'er all my soul held dear.

I

may

look back on every sorrow past, And meet life's peaceful evening with a smileAs some lone bird, at day's departing hour,

Sings in the sunbeam of the transient shower, Forgetful, though its wings are wet the while: Yet ah! how much must that poor heart endure Which hopes from thee, and thee alone, a cure! W. L. BOWLES, 1762-1850.

GRATITUDE AND HUMBLE CONTENT.

LORD, Thou hast given me a cell
Wherein to dwell;

A little house, whose humble roof
Is weatherproof;

Under the spars of which I lie
Both soft and dry.

Where Thou, my chamber for to ward,
Hast set a guard

Of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep
Me while I sleep.

Low is my porch, as is my fate,

Both void of state;

And yet the threshold of my

Is worn by the poor,

door

Who hither come, and freely get
Good words or meat.

Like as my parlour, so my hall,
And kitchen small;

A little buttery, and therein
A little bin,

Which keeps my little loaf of bread
Unchipt, unflead.

Some brittle sticks of thorn or brier
Make me a fire,

Close by whose living coal I sit,
And glow like it.

Lord, I confess, too, when I dine,
The pulse is Thine,

And all those other bits that be

There placed by Thee.

The worts, the purslain, and the mess
Of water-cress,

Which of Thy kindness Thou hast sent:
And my content

Makes those, and my belovèd beet,
To be more sweet.

'Tis Thou that crown'st my glittering hearth With guiltless mirth !

And giv'st me wassail-bowls to drink,
Spiced to the brink.

Lord, 'tis Thy plenty-dropping hand

That sows my land:

All this and better, dost Thou send
Me for this end:

That I should render for my part
A thankful heart,

Which, fired with incense, I resign
As wholly thine:

But the acceptance-that must be,
O Lord, by Thee.

ROBERT HERRICK, 1591-1660.

THE COMMON LOT.

MOURN not thy daughter fading!

It is the common lot,

That those we love should come and go,
And leave us in this world of woe:
So, murmur not!

Her life was short, but fair,

Unsullied by a blot;

And now she sinks to dreamless rest,—

(A dove who makes the earth her nest ;) So, murmur not!

No pangs, nor passionate grief,

Nor anger raging hot,

No ills shall ever harm her more;
She goes into the silent shore,

Where pain is not.