LIFE.

Life is a weary interlude,

Which doth short joys, long woes, include;
The world the stage, the prologue tears,
The acts vain hopes and varied fears;
The scene shuts up with loss of breath,
And leaves no epilogue but death.

HENRY KING.

Like to the falling of a star,
Or as the flights of eagles are;
Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue,
Or silver drops of morning dew;
Or like a wind that chafes the flood,
Or bubbles which on water stood;
Even such is man, whose borrowed light
Is straight called in and paid to-night.
The wind blows out, the bubble dies,
The spring entombed in autumn lies,
The dew dries up, the star is shot,
The flight is past-and man forgot.
HENRY KING.

AKENSIDE.

SHAKSPEARE.

A heavenly argosy!

PROCTOR.

O how this spring of life resembleth
The uncertain glory of an April day,
Which now shows all the beauty of the sun,
And by and by a cloud takes all away!
SHAKSPEARE.

When I beheld this fickle, trustless state

Of vain world's glory, flitting to and fro, And mortal men tossed by troublous fate In restless seas of wretchedness and woe, I wish I might this weary life forego, And shortly turn unto my happy rest,

Where my free spirit might not any more Be vexed with sights that do her peace molest. SPENSER.

Circles are praised, not that abound
In largeness, but th' exactly round:
So life we praise that doth excel
Not in much time, but acting well.
WALLER

A flower that does with opening morn arise,
And, flourishing the day, at evening dies;
A winged eastern blast, just skimming o'er
The ocean's brow, and sinking on the shore;

long,

Though life did ride upon a dial's point,

Still ending at the arrival of an hour.

SHAKSPEARE.

fly;

A meteor shooting from the summer sky;
A bowl adown the bending mountain rolled;

A bubble breaking, and a fable told;
A noontide shadow, and a midnight dream;

proclaim

HERRICK.

Our earthly course; but O my soul! so fast Must life run off, and death forever last?

PRIOR.

By passionately loving life, we make Loved life unlovely, hugging her to death. YOUNG.

end,

The time that bears no fruit deserves no

name;

The man of wisdom is the man of years.

YOUNG.

Ah! what is human life? How, like the dial's tardy moving shade, Day after day slides from us unperceived! The cunning fugitive is swift by stealth; Too subtle is the movement to be seen, Yet soon the hour is up and we are gone. YOUNG.

Life's little stage is a small eminence
Inch-high the grave above, that home of man
Where dwells the multitude: we gaze around;
We read their monuments; we sigh, and

while

We sigh we sink, and are what we deplored; Lamenting, or lamented, all our lot.

YOUNG.

He sins against this life who slights the

next.

YOUNG.

With disappointment low'ring in his eyes,

I would not live alway; I ask not to stay, Where storm after storm rises dark o'er the way;

Where, seeking for peace, we but hover around, Like the patriarch's bird, and no resting is found:

187

So in the passing of a day doth pass
The bud and blossom of the life of man;
Nor e'er doth flourish more, but like the grass,
Cut down, becometh withered, pale, and wan.
From the Italian of TASSO.

Between two breaths what crowded mysteries lie,

The first short gasp, the last and long-drawn sigh!

Like phantoms painted on the magic slide,
Forth from the darkness of the past we glide,
As living shadows for a moment seen
In airy pageant on the eternal screen,

Then seek the dust and stillness, whence we

came

HOLMES.

Thus bravely live heroic men,

A consecrated band; Life is to them a battle-field, Their hearts a holy land.

TUCKERMAN.

Life hath its sunshine; but the ray
Which flashes on its stormy wave
Is but the beacon of decay,

A meteor gleaming o'er the grave;
And though its dawning hour is bright
With fancy's gayest coloring,
Yet o'er its cloud-encumbered night
Dark ruin flaps his raven wing.
J. G. BROOKS.

What was thy life? a bright and beauteous flame,

Wherein, a season, light and joy we found; But a swift sound of rushing tempest came, It passed, and sparkless ashes strewed the ground!

TRENCH.

Life is the jailor, death the angel sent
To draw the unwilling bolts and set us free.
LOWELL.