"Alas! too long and fruitlessly I've striven, To mar thy changeless purposes, high Heaven! -Henceforth to Heaven-myself I dedicate, LINES, Written Nov. 21st, 1832, after great affliction. Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal: But lay up for yourselves treasures in Heaven, where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, and where thieves do not break through nor steal: For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also. ST. MATTHEW, SET not-set not your hearts on Earth, Her joys are fleeting-her gifts have no worth; Bright and fair as her glories seem, They will fade to the touch, like the hues of a dream; Sweet as the draught in her Chalice may be, The dregs are embitter'd by Misery. Heed not the baits of her gilded snare, Trouble, and watchings, and toil are there; Anxious days and sleepless nights, Are the price of the Miser's stern delights ; Could a tale of murder and fraud unfold. Raise not your eye to Ambition's Star, Freedom, and Honour, and Truth expire! Does thy bosom swell with the hope that Fame That about thy brows her wreaths shall twine, -With the burning brain, and the racking thought, Has Love his thraldom about thee wound, Soon, too soon, will the vision fade, When the wreck of heart and of peace is made: The fairy scenes Love's witch'ries make, Fleet like the Desert's treach'rous lake; And the weary Pilgrim journeys on, When Love, and Hope, and Joy are gone! Dost thou pour Affection's treasures forth, On some fair, frail thing, some Child of Earth? Dost thou garner thy hopes on some dear head, And tears of parental rapture shed, As the lovely human blossom blows, Place not-place not your treasure there,- The fairest forms, Decay will pine, And fell Disease oft sweeps away, Taste not Pleasure's madd'ning draught; The haggard cheek, and the reeling eye, And Health and Peace, nay, the precious Soul, Those blessed Lips which could not lie, Have bid us build our hopes on high: -Place we on Earth our fondest trust, Our treasures are clay, and our wealth is dust; And rust may canker, and moths consume, What escapes from spoil and the yawning tomb. |