It tells the conquerer, That farre-stretcht powre, Which his proud dangers traffique for, That from the farthest North Yet undiscovered, issue forth, And on his new-got conquest sway. Some nation, yet shut in May be let forth to scourge his sinne, Then they likewise shall Their ruine have; For, as your selves, your empires fall, And every kingdome hath a grave. Thus those celestial fires, Though seeming mute, The fallacies of our desires, And all the pride of life confute. For they have watcht since first And found sinne in it selfe-accurst, CXXXVIII. CAN he be fair, that withers at a blast? Can he be young, that's feeble, weak, and wan?—- is man. So fair is man, that death, a parting blast, Blasts his fair flower, and makes him earth at last; Why bragg'st thou then, thou worm of five-foot long? Thou 'rt neither fair, nor strong, nor wise, nor rich, nor young. CXXXIX. SWEET day! so cool, so calm, so bright, Bridal of earth and sky, The dew shall weep thy fall to night; For thou, alas! must die. Sweet rose! in air whose odours wave, Thy root is ever in its grave, Sweet spring, of days and roses made, Be wise then, Christian, while you may The thoughtless man, that laughs to-day, CXL. Now I live; But if to-night?-to-morrow?-know I not. my lot All unto God! To Him my faithful service give, And, through His Spirit's strength, Prepare for my account at length. See the flower, Which, full of brightness, in the morning shone: It doth no longer wave the stalk upon When evening comes. So lasts man's glory but an hour. Stand thou clear From earth. Here is thy struggle ;-yonder, rest. Let earth seem distant-heaven more near. How soon comes that which shall not die! Never delay To do the duty which the hour brings, What he shall do the coming day? This moment is for thee; The next, perhaps, thou wilt not see. Father of all ! So let thy warning, "Watch," be not in vain ;— Let my soul hear, And daily answer to the call; Then sudden death shall be But a quick step to life and Thee. CXLI. THE glories of our mortal state Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade. Some men with swords may reap the field, Early or late They stoop to fate, And must give up their murmuring breath, The garlands wither on your brow, To the cold tomb: Only the actions of the just Smell sweet, and blossom from the dust. |