An emblem of the peace that springs, To chase away all strife, An earnest of the grace, that brings Life to the inner life.
WATCHING the game of life as daily played, One marvels at the blunders that are made; Few trust to chance alone to gain their aim, But with the means they use 'tis just the same. Low cunning some employ, and call it skill, Or substitute for Reason headstrong Will; And when they win the prize for which they strive, To their own genius they the credit give; But when they lose, the blame on fate is thrown; They never think the fault may be their own. Others who boast that cunning they disdain, Affect by Pride their purposes to gain; High-reaching objects do their minds devise, By which they blind their own and neighbours' eyes; Aiming at lofty things, they highly rate Their own designings, but they find too late That for success mere unassisted Pride Does not all necessary means provide; So thinking surely to promote their aim, And win the stake of their ambition's game, But not particular as to how 'tis played, They call, Pride's contrast, meanness to their aid: Yet ev'n though Fortune should their hopes attend, It does not change the matter in the end; Meanness and Pride may climb the highest hill, But Pride and meanness they continue still.
Since Life's a game where all their part must play, Reason and Truth should in it have the sway, Or wanting these, as is too oft the case, Folly and Passion will usurp their place.
When this weak body dwindles into dust, And man becomes the nothing that he must, How puny then will to the soul appear All that man toils and struggles for when here! Bound to the narrow aims and views of Earth, At death his spirit finds that all is dearth That to this world relates, and well that he Makes Time provide still for Eternity.
LIKE monumental Patience, see Decay Watching the sand-glass slowly wear away, While Death at hand, amid her waning powers, Counts, as a monk his beads, her numbered hours. Upon her brow, o'er which the tresses wave, The cold dew gathers, dankly, of the grave, And in her pale mild eyes a lustre shines, As if her spirit, as she wastes, refines; While ever and anon her sunken cheek, Life's fading beauties delicately streak; As the departing sun from ocean's brinks Sheds out its glories brightly ere it sinks!