Thy lovely form, once beauteous to behold, For which thy master parted with his gold; And this thy dappled hide, Though once its owner's pride, Now for a thing of nought will soon be sold!
That ear through which the slightest sound inspir'd Vigour, when pressing business oft requir'd; Already cold as clay, Doth now inactive lay, Nor startles at that gun which now is fired!
Thy frolics and thy gambols now are past, Thy last stage is run;-thou art dying fast: Perhaps ere I, At home shall be, Thou unattended wilt have breath'd thy last!
The stall is vacant where thou lov'dst to be, The curb and saddle now are nought to thee!
The whip and spur, Thou car'st not for, But leav'st to others as thy legacy!
While I string up my rhymes to make them chord, And thus thy melancholy fate record, Perhaps near thee, In some old tree, The lonely night bird sings thy funeral ode!
MORAL.
Some while their cup is full can laugh at Death, And light esteem that power which lends them breath; But be that far, As yon pale star, From him who now its progress witnesseth!
Did men but see how near is his approach, They would with morning sun, or nightly torch, Themselves prepare, And search with care, And strictly watch each avenue and porch!
Nor would they rest, at business or in bed, Till every foe was found, and captive led; Till all the soul, From stains most foul, Was wash'd, or till the contrite tear was shed!
A fountain from the mount of God doth flow, For all who will take time and pains to go, Whose healing stream, Doth freely teem, To wash polluted sinners white as snow!
A soul thus wash'd shall joyful rise again, By Death unscar'd, and on angelic wing, Shall mount above, To Him whose love And power deprive the monster of his sting!
MUSINGS DURING AFFLICTION;
OR
THE SEARCH AFTER HAPPINESS.
"_He shall fly away as a dream._" (Job. xx. 8.)
While here I sit musing alone, Not sharing the toils of the day, My spirit doth inwardly groan, At the symptoms I feel of decay.
My care burden'd mind can't be still, Though the external fabric be maim'd; Some part must be working the will Of Him who that fabric hath framed.
The merchant looks over his books, And hopes well to finish the day; So life hath some corners and nooks, It might not be wrong to survey.
If the morning of life we behold, When all seems delightful and bright, The rosebud doth scarcely unfold, But 'tis gone as a dream of the night!
If to youth our attention we turn, When all is enchanting and free; When very few know how to mourn, And all things seem pleasant and gay.
A something we sought in the fields,- Alas! as oft sought it in vain!
The joys that such scenery yields, Are such as we cannot retain.
We sought in the meadows and groves, In the woods, by the rivers and streams; But all our vain hopes and our loves, Were like wood to the furnace's flames!
The old pathway still puts us in mind, Though its stones are forsaken and green, Of youthful affections, so kind, Though now scarce a vestige is seen!
We long have been wandering abroad, And have learn'd to sorrow and weep; While some have been lost on the road, And others have sunk in the deep!
In the fire-side circle we sought, But found by the glimmering light, That soon as the shadows we caught; They fled like a dream of the night!
There were some whom we knew in the flesh, Seem'd happy, and healthy, and strong; But before they obtain'd their wish, They, alas! in a moment were gone!
'Twas gloomy and dark at their end, No light in their death did appear; That happiness would them attend, Was hoped-but hope turn'd to despair!
Alas! how neglectful they lived, How sad an example they set, How many fair youths were deceiv'd, Who are not yet free from the net!
They surely had time to repent, To weep, and to sorrow, and pray; But time that should thus have been spent, Was wantonly squander'd away.
They quick were cut off at a stroke, Were hurried away from our sight; The bonds of their friendship all broke, They fled like a dream of the night.
Though long in the grave they have lain, And long since have gone to decay, Remembrance can raise them again, As fresh as they were in life's day.
We remember the look of the face, The language that glanc'd from the eye, The cough, or the laugh, or some grace, By which we their forms can descry.
How short our acquaintance appears, Our pleasures, how swift was their flight!
Before we could number their years, They fled as a dream of the night!
In manhood we sought it abroad, And mix'd with the mirthful and gay, When liberty lengthen'd the cord, And tempted our feet far astray.
Then away to the races and fairs, When seasons and friends did invite; To the shows, to the stalls, and their wares, And to music and dancing at night!
We sought it by land and by sea,- Where'er we directed our eyes, All said, "Pleasure is not in me!
My beauty is all a disguise!"
O Happiness! where dost thou dwell?
O where shall we search with success?
From the court to the cottage or cell, All seem the abodes of distress!
Oft have we reflected with pain, And fancied while counting the cost, If restor'd to childhood again, We'd recover the thing we had lost.
Then happiness seem'd to be ours,- We roved by the river or glen; The birds, and the bushes, and flowers, Appear'd as a paradise then!
Yon hill, and the stone on the plain, Remind us whenever we pass, Where we in a fairy-like train, Have scamper'd about on the grass!
Gone by are our childhood and youth, And gone is each transient delight; They told us,-who told us the truth,- They'd pass as a dream of the night.
By the faithful discourse of a friend, We were told, whether cloudy or bright, This life, long or short, in the end, Would depart as a dream of the night:-
That in vain among shadows and flowers, We sought satisfaction within; True pleasure could never be ours, Till the heart had been broken for sin
The heart, until such was the case, Was so puff'd up with pride and deceit, That no matter how splendid the feast, That root bitter'd every thing sweet!