Page:Fugitive Poetry 1600-1878.djvu/150
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HOW OLD ART THOU?
At the eve of life while musing on the sunny hopes of yore,
And the loved forms we so cherished, that will come again no more,
Then the heart feels tired and weary, and longs for yon bright shore,
Whose nightless day drives tears away, and sorrows come no more,
For the hopes so fled, the loves so dead, this world can ne'er restore.
And the loved forms we so cherished, that will come again no more,
Then the heart feels tired and weary, and longs for yon bright shore,
Whose nightless day drives tears away, and sorrows come no more,
For the hopes so fled, the loves so dead, this world can ne'er restore.
To-Day and To-Morrow.
To-day, man lives in pleasure, wealth, and pride;
To-morrow, poor, of life itself denied.
To-day, lays plans for many years to come;
To-morrow, sinks into the silent tomb.
To-day, his food is dressed in dainty forms;
To-morrow, is himself a feast for worms.
To-day, he's clad in gaudy, rich array;
To-morrow, shrouded for a bed of clay.
To-day, enjoys his halls, built to his mind;
To-morrow, in a coffin is confined.
To-day, he floats on honour's lofty wave;
To-morrow, leaves his titles for a grave.
To-day, his beauteous visage we extol;
To-morrow, loathsome in the sight of all.
To-day, he has delusive dreams of heaven;
To-morrow, cries too late to be forgiven.
To-day, he lives in hopes as light as air;
To-morrow, dies in anguish and despair.
To-morrow, poor, of life itself denied.
To-day, lays plans for many years to come;
To-morrow, sinks into the silent tomb.
To-day, his food is dressed in dainty forms;
To-morrow, is himself a feast for worms.
To-day, he's clad in gaudy, rich array;
To-morrow, shrouded for a bed of clay.
To-day, enjoys his halls, built to his mind;
To-morrow, in a coffin is confined.
To-day, he floats on honour's lofty wave;
To-morrow, leaves his titles for a grave.
To-day, his beauteous visage we extol;
To-morrow, loathsome in the sight of all.
To-day, he has delusive dreams of heaven;
To-morrow, cries too late to be forgiven.
To-day, he lives in hopes as light as air;
To-morrow, dies in anguish and despair.
How Old Art Thou?
Count not the days that have idly flown,
The years that were vainly spent;
Nor speak of the hours thou must blush to own
When thy spirit stands before the throne
To account for the talents lent.
The years that were vainly spent;
Nor speak of the hours thou must blush to own
When thy spirit stands before the throne
To account for the talents lent.
But number the hours redeemed from sin,
The moments employed for heaven;
Oh, few and evil thy days have been,
Thy life a toilsome but worthless scene,
For a nobler purpose given.
The moments employed for heaven;
Oh, few and evil thy days have been,
Thy life a toilsome but worthless scene,
For a nobler purpose given.