O Life, or but some evanescent madness
And glittering spoil of life snatch'd with blind gladness!
Of endless Error, transitory guest;
Sad human Error, which would fain find rest.
O certain Error, 'neath uncertain sky
Suspending here our frail mortality;
Leading us through a thousand devious ways
And intricacies of a treacherous maze!
Our staggering footsteps how dost thou beguile
Through wanton rounds of unavailing toil,
And our entangl'd days to nothing bring!
O fates, how much of our poor life takes wing,
Wasted on winds and shadows! On life's stage
Shadows and winds a serious part engage,
The scene confusing. On life's billow tost,
The sport of changeful tide, we're well-nigh lost,
And, like a frail boat on a stormy sea,
We waver up and down uncertainly.
Nay, e'en the threads spun by the Fates on high,
As with stern fingers they divinely ply
The web of life, twine round us as we go,
And draw us backwards, forwards, to and fro;
Till Ruin trips us up, and we are found
Helpless and weary, stretched along the ground.
Happy the man who, welcoming each day
With smiles that answer to its fleeting ray,
Pursues with step serene his purpos'd way;
The alluring snares peculiar to the age
_His_ soul enslave not, nor his mind engage;
His life with peaceful tenor glides along,
By fav'ring breezes fann'd, and sooth'd with song;
Inspir'd by Heaven with soul-sustaining force,
Seldom he falls, or falters in his course;
But ever, as the eddying years roll round,
Bursting through all the perils that abound,
A wise assertor of himself is found. R. WI.