This unhappy accident took from the afflicted master all the pleasure of his voyage, and he mourned for the loss of this youth as if it had been his own, yea only, son; for as he was in himself a man of a worthy mind, so the boy, by his witty and handsome behaviour in general, and obsequious carriage towards him in particular, had very much wrought himself into his favour.
As for me, I thought it one of the sharpest strokes I had met with, for I both loved the child very well and had conceived great hopes of general good from him; and it pierced me the deeper to think how deeply it would pierce his afflicted parents.
Sorrow for this disaster was my companion in this journey, and I travelled the roads under great exercise of mind, revolving in my thoughts the manifold accidents which the life of man was attended with and subject to, and the great uncertainty of all human things; I could find no centre, no firm basis, for the mind of man to fix upon but the divine power and will of the Almighty. This consideration wrought in my spirit a sort of contempt of what supposed happiness or pleasure this world, or the things that are in and of it, can of themselves yield, and raised my contemplation higher; which, as it ripened and came to some degree of digestion, I breathed forth in mournful accents thus:—
SOLITARY THOUGHTS ON THE UNCERTAINTY OF HUMAN THINGS.
OCCASIONED BY THE SUDDEN LOSS OF A HOPEFUL YOUTH.
_Transibunt cito_, _quæ vos mansura putatis_.
Those things soon will pass away Which ye think will always stay.
What ground, alas! has any man To set his heart on things below, Which, when they seem most like to stand, Fly like an arrow from a bow? Things subject to exterior sense Are to mutation most propense. If stately houses we erect, And therein think to take delight, On what a sudden are we checked, And all our hopes made groundless quite! One little spark in ashes lays What we were building half our days. If on estate an eye we cast, And pleasure there expect to find, A secret providential blast Gives disappointment to our mind: Who now’s on top ere long may feel The circling motion of the wheel. If we our tender babes embrace, And comfort hope in them to have, Alas! in what a little space Is hope, with them, laid in the grave! Whatever promiseth content Is in a moment from us rent. This world cannot afford a thing Which, to a well-composed mind, Can any lasting pleasure bring, But in its womb its grave will find. All things unto their centre tend; What had { 230} beginning will have end. But is there nothing then that’s sure For man to fix his heart upon— Nothing that always will endure, When all these transient things are gone? Sad state! where man, with grief oppressed Finds nought whereon his mind may rest. O yes; there is a God above, Who unto men is also nigh, On whose unalterable love We may with confidence rely, No disappointment can befall Us, having him that’s All in All. If unto Him we faithful be, It is impossible to miss Of whatsoever He shall see Conducible unto our bliss. What can of pleasure him prevent Who hath the fountain of content? In Him alone if we delight, And in His precepts pleasure take, We shall be sure to do aright— ’Tis not His nature to forsake. A proper object’s He alone, For man to set his heart upon.