When will I hear de banjo tumming, All de world am sad and dreary, Oh, darkeys, how my heart grows weary, Far from de old folks at home! STEPHEN COLLINS FOSTER. NoT to understand a treasure's worth Till time has stol'n away the slighted good, Is cause of half the poverty we feel, And makes the world the wilderness it is. WILLIAM COWPER. III. ADVERSITY. MAN. In his own image the Creator made, His own pure sunbeam quickened thee, O man! Thou breathing dial! since the day began The present hour was ever marked with shade! WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. THE WORLD. THE World's a bubble, and the Life of Man In his conception wretched, from the womb, Curst from his cradle, and brought up to years Who then to frail mortality shall trust, Yet whilst with sorrow here we live opprest, Courts are but only superficial schools To dandle fools: 151 The rural parts are turned into a den Of savage men: And where's a city from foul vice so free, Domestic cares afflict the husband's bed, Those that live single, take it for a curse, Some would have children: those that have them, moan Or wish them gone: What is it, then, to have or have no wife, Our own affection still at home to please To cross the seas to any foreign soil, Wars with their noise affright us; when they cease, We are worse in peace; What then remains, but that we still should cry For being born, or, being born, to die? FRANCIS, LORD BACON. MOAN, MOAN, YE DYING GALES. MOAN, moan, ye dying gales! The saddest of your tales Is not so sad as life; Nor have you e'er began Fall, fall, thou withered leaf! Nor kills such lovely flowers; When dark misfortune lowers. Hush! hush! thou trembling lyre, And thou, mellifluous lute, And all his music mute. Then, when the gale is sighing, O, let us think of those Whose lives are lost in woes, Whose cup of grief runs o'er. HENRY NEELE. THE VANITY OF THE WORLD. FALSE world, thou ly'st: thou canst not lend The least delight: Thy favors cannot gain a friend, They are so slight: Thy morning pleasures make an end Poor are the wants that thou supply'st, And yet thou vaunt'st, and yet thou vy'st With heaven: fond earth, thou boasts; false world, thou ly'st. Thy babbling tongue tells golden tales Thy bounty offers easy sales Of lasting pleasure; Thou ask'st the conscience what she ails, There's none can want where thou supply'st; ly'st. What well-advised ear regards What earth can say? Thy words are gold, but thy regards Thy cunning can but pack the cards, Thy game at weakest, still thou vy'st; If seen, and then revy'd, deny'st: Thou art not what thou seem'st; false world, thou ly'st. Thy tinsel bosom seems a mint A paradise, that has no stint, No change, no measure; |