Part 50 (2/2)

INSTABILITY OF HUMAN GREATNESS.

Fond man, that looks on earth for happiness, And here long seeks what here is never found!

For all our good we hold from Heaven by lease, With many forfeits and conditions bound; Nor can we pay the fine and rentage due: Though now but writ and seal'd, and given anew, Yet daily we it break, then daily must renew.

Why shouldst thou here look for perpetual good, At every loss against Heaven's face repining?

Do but behold where glorious cities stood, With gilded tops, and silver turrets s.h.i.+ning; Where now the hart fearless of greyhound feeds, And loving pelican in safety breeds; Where screeching satyrs fill the people's empty steads.

Where is the a.s.syrian lion's golden hide, That all the East once grasp'd in lordly paw?

Where that great Persian bear, whose swelling pride The lion's self tore out with ravenous jaw?

Or he which, 'twixt a lion and a pard, Through all the world with nimble pinions fared, And to his greedy whelps his conquer'd kingdoms shared?

Hardly the place of such antiquity, Or note of these great monarchies we find: Only a fading verbal memory, An empty name in writ is left behind: But when this second life and glory fades, And sinks at length in time's obscurer shades, A second fall succeeds, and double death invades.

That monstrous Beast, which nursed in Tiber's fen, Did all the world with hideous shape affray; That fill'd with costly spoil his gaping den, And trod down all the rest to dust and clay: His battering horns pull'd out by civil hands, And iron teeth lie scatter'd on the sands; Backed, bridled by a monk, with seven heads yoked stands.

And that black Vulture,[1] which with deathful wing O'ershadows half the earth, whose dismal sight Frighten'd the Muses from their native spring, Already stoops, and flags with weary flight: Who then shall look for happiness beneath?

Where each new day proclaims chance, change, and death, And life itself's as fleet as is the air we breathe.

[1] 'Black Vulture:' the Turk.

HAPPINESS OF THE SHEPHERD'S LIFE.

Thrice, oh, thrice happy, shepherd's life and state!

When courts are happiness, unhappy p.a.w.ns!

His cottage low and safely humble gate Shuts out proud Fortune, with her scorns and fawns No feared treason breaks his quiet sleep: Singing all day, his flocks he learns to keep; Himself as innocent as are his simple sheep.

No Serian worms he knows, that with their thread Draw out their silken lives; nor silken pride: His lambs' warm fleece well fits his little need, Not in that proud Sidonian tineture dyed: No empty hopes, no courtly fears him fright, Nor begging wants his middle fortune bite; But sweet content exiles both misery and spite.

Instead of music, and base flattering tongues, Which wait to first salute my lord's uprise, The cheerful lark wakes him with early songs, And birds' sweet whistling notes unlock his eyes: In country plays is all the strife he uses, Or sing, or dance unto the rural Muses, And but in music's sports all difference refuses.

His certain life, that never can deceive him, Is full of thousand sweets, and rich content; The smooth-leaved beeches in the field receive him With coolest shades, till noontide rage is spent; His life is neither toss'd in boisterous seas Of troublous world, nor lost in slothful ease; Pleased, and full blest he lives, when he his G.o.d can please.

His bed of wool yields safe and quiet sleeps, While by his side his faithful spouse hath place; His little son into his bosom creeps, The lively picture of his father's face: Never his humble house nor state torment him; Less he could like, if less his G.o.d had sent him; And when he dies, green turfs, with gra.s.sy tomb, content him.

MARRIAGE OF CHRIST AND THE CHURCH.

'Ah, dearest Lord! does my rapt soul behold thee?

Am I awake, and sure I do not dream?

Do these thrice-blessed arms again enfold thee?

Too much delight makes true things feigned seem.

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