Life

Dear friend, all theory is gray, And green the golden tree of life.

Man errs as long as he strives. 9

A useless life is an early death.

One lives but once in the world.

For he counteracts the Devil, who is Death, by brisking about the life.

For who to dumb forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing anxious being e’er resign’d, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing ling’ring look behind?

Can storied urn, or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can honor’s voice provoke the silent dust, Or flatt’ry soothe the dull cold ear of death?

Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway’d, Or wak’d to ecstasy the living lyre.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow’r, And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave, Awaits alike the inevitable hour: The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her evening care.

Let not ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile, The short and simple annals of the poor.

The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn.

Each in his narrow cell forever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

He left the name at which the world grew pale, To point a moral, or adorn a tale.

If you would not be forgotten, As soon as you are dead and rotten, Either write things worthy reading, Or do things worth the writing.

Who has not the spirit of his age, Of his age has all the unhappiness. 12

Not to go back is somewhat to advance, And men must walk, at least, before they dance.

Behold the child, by Nature’s kindly law, Pleas’d with a rattle, tickled with a straw: Some livelier plaything gives his youth delight, A little louder, but as empty quite: Scarfs, garters, gold, amuse his riper stage, And beads and prayer books are the toys of age! Pleas’d with this bauble still, as that before; Till tir’d he sleeps, and life’s poor play is o’er.

Awake, my St. John! 4 leave all meaner things To low ambition, and the pride of kings. Let us, since life can little more supply Than just to look about us, and to die, Expatiate free o’er all this scene of man; A mighty maze! but not without a plan.

Life is a jest; and all things show it. I thought so once; but now I know it.

Happy the man whose wish and care A few paternal acres bound, Content to breathe his native air In his own ground.

Man wants but little, nor that little long.

Happy the man, and happy he alone, He who can call today his own; He who, secure within, can say, Tomorrow, do thy worst, for I have liv’d today.