The wain gave a lurch, the hearse moved on,
A moment or two, and both were gone;
The wain bound east, the hearse bound west,
Both going home, both looking for rest.
The Lord save all, and his name be blest!
Benjamin F. Taylor.
IKE as the damask rose you see,
Or like the blossoms on the tree,
Or like the dainty flower of May,
Or like the morning of the day,
Or like the sun, or like the shade,
Or like the gourd which Jonas had;
Even such is man, whose thread is spun,
Drawn out and cut, and so is done.
The rose withers, the blossom blasteth,
The flower fades, the morning hasteth,
The sun sets, the shadow flies,
The gourd consumes, and man, - he dies!
Like to the grass that's newly sprung,
Or like a tale that's new begun,
Or like the bird that 's here to-day,
Or like the pearléd dew of May,
Or like an hour, or like a span,
Or like the singing of a swan;
Even such is man, who lives by breath,
Is here, now there, in life and death.
The grass withers, the tale is ended,
The bird is flown, the dew 's ascended,
The hour is short, the span not long,
The swan near death,
Like to a bubble in the brook,
Or in a glass much like a look,
Or like a shuttle in a weaver's haud,
Or like the writing on the sand,
Or like a thought, or like a dream,
Or like the gliding of a stream;
Even such is man, who lives by breath,
Is here, now there, in life and death.
The bubble's out, the look 's forgot,
The shuttle's flung, the writing's blot,
The thought is past, the dream is gone,
The water glides, — man's life is done!
Like to a blaze of fond delight,
Or like a morning clear and bright,
Or like a frost, or like a shower,
Or like the pride of Babel's tower,
Or like the hour that guides the time,
Or like to Beauty in her prime;
Even such is man, whose glory lends
That life a blaze or two, and ends.
The morn's o'ercast, joy turned to pain,
The frost is thawed, dried up the rain,
The tower falls, the hour is run,
The beauty lost, man's life is done!
Like to an arrow from the bow,
Or like swift course of waterflow,
Or like that time 'twixt flood and ebb,
Or like the spider's tender web,
Or like a race, or like a goal,
Or like the dealing of a dole;
Even such is man, whose brittle state
Is always subject unto Fate.
The arrow 's shot, the flood soon spent,
The time 's no time, the web soon rent,
The race soon run, the goal soon won,
The dole soon dealt, man's life is done!
Like to the lightning from the sky,
Or like a post that quick doth hie,
Or like a quaver in a short song,
Or like a journey three days long,
Or like the snow when summer's come,
Or like the pear, or like the plum;
Even such is man, who heaps up sorrow,
Lives but this day, and dies to-morrow.
The lightning's past, the post must go,
The song is short, the journey's so,
The
pear doth rot, the plum doth fall,
The snow dissolves, — and so must all!
Simon Wastel.
IKE to the falling of a star,
Or as the flights of eagles are,
Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue,
Or silver drops of morning dew,
Or like a wind that chafes the flood,
Or bubbles which on water stood;
Even such is man, whose borrowed light
Is straight called in, and paid to-night.
The wind blows out, the bubble dies,
The spring entombed in autumn lies,
The dew dries up, the star is shot,
The flight is past, — and man forgot!
Henry King.
WORLD! O Life! O Time!
On whose last steps I climb,
Trembling at that where I had stood before; When will return the glory of your prime ? No more, O nevermore!
Out of the day and night
A joy has taken flight :
Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar Move my faint heart with grief, but with delight
IFE! I know not what thou art,
But know that thou and I must part; And when, or how, or where we met,
I own to me 's a secret yet.
Life! we've been long together,
Through pleasant and through cloudy weather; "T is hard to part when friends are dear,
Perhaps 't will cost a sigh, a tear;
Then steal away, give little warning,
Choose thine own time,
Say not Good Night, -- but in some brighter clime Bid me Good Morning.
THE woods decay, the woods decay and fall,
The vapors weep their burden to the ground,
Man comes and tills the field and lies beneath,
And after many a summer dies the swan.
Me only cruel immortality
Consumes: I wither slowly in thine arms,
Here at the quiet limit of the world,
A white-haired shadow roaming like a dream
The ever-silent spaces of the east,
Far-folded mists, and gleaming halls of morn.
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