Hours of Solitude. A Collection of Original Poems. Volume I.

THE FOLLY OF LIFE.

AND what is life? A fleeting shade, A cheerless, beamless, frozen glade, A span too short for joy to smile, Ere restless hopes and fears beguile­ A nervous, feverish dream, at best, From which the wise desire To wake, then sink to endless rest, And gratefully expire.

With calm disdain, compos'd, resign'd, The greatly philosophic mind Can view with firm, unshrinking eye, The tyrant pale and grim come nigh; Can view him with a smile of scorn, Sigh, and remember still, True, true the grave is cold, forlorn, But man's heart colder still.

Yet grov'ling on their misty way, And led perpetually astray, The wretched universal mind Seem to their sickly life resign'd; And meanly toiling on, thro' fear, Would shudder could they see The million dangers lurking near, Afraid of what may be.

Yet not afraid of present ills, 'Tis apprehension only kills. The dastard soul, abas'd and mean, Ephemeral, sports in the beam. Hereafter pales the coward cheek, While folly rules the day, And, base, contemptible, and weak, He prays but for delay.

Poor mortal, 'tis not giv'n to thee Immaculate, or great to be: Yet, far as power will permit, Be just, humane­to ills submit;

Be firm, be noble, and preserve An independent mind, From honour's path forbear to swerve, Look up, and die resign'd.