_Ach wie nichtig, ach wie flüchtig!_
O how cheating, O how fleeting
Is our earthly being!
’Tis a mist in wintry weather,
Gather’d in an hour together,
And as soon dispers’d in ether.
O how cheating, O how fleeting
Are our days departing!
Like a deep and headlong river
Flowing onward, flowing ever--
Tarrying not and stopping never.
O how cheating, O how fleeting
Are the world’s enjoyments!
All the hues of change they borrow,
Bright to-day and dark to-morrow--
Mingled lot of joy and sorrow!
O how cheating, O how fleeting
Is all earthly beauty!
Like a summer flow’ret flowing,
Scattered by the breezes, blowing
O’er the bed on which ’twas growing.
O how cheating, O how fleeting
Is the strength of mortals!
On a lion’s power they pride them,
With security beside them--
Yet what overthrows betide them!
O how cheating, O how fleeting
Is all earthly pleasure!
’Tis an air-suspended bubble,
Blown about in tears and trouble,
Broken soon by flying stubble.
O how cheating, O how fleeting
Is all earthly honour!
He who wields a monarch’s thunder,
Tearing right and law asunder,
Is to-morrow trodden under.
O how cheating, O how fleeting
Is all mortal wisdom!
He who with poetic fiction,
Sway’d and silenced contradiction,
Soon is still’d by death’s infliction.
O how cheating, O how fleeting
Is all earthly music!
Though he sing as angels sweetly,
Play he never so discreetly,
Death will overpower him fleetly.
O how cheating, O how fleeting
Are all mortal treasures!
Let him pile and pile untiring,
Time, that adds to his desiring,
Shall disperse the heap aspiring.
O how cheating, O how fleeting
Is the world’s ambition!
Thou who sit’st upon the steepest
Height, and there securely sleepest,
Soon wilt sink, alas! the deepest.
O how cheating, O how fleeting
Is the pomp of mortals!
Clad in purple--and elated,
O’er their fellows elevated,
They shall be by death unseated.
O how cheating, O how fleeting
All--yes! all that’s earthly!
Every thing is fading--flying--
Man is mortal--earth is dying--
Christian! live on Heav’n relying.
The same writer truly pictures our fearful estate, if we heed not the
silent progress of “the enemy,” that by proper attention we may convert
into a friend.--
_Time._
On! on! our moments hurry by
Like shadows of a passing cloud,
Till general darkness wraps the sky,
And man sleeps senseless in his shroud.
He sports, he trifles time away,
Till time is his to waste no more.
Heedless he hears the surges play;
And then is dash’d upon the shore.
He has no thought of coming days,
Though they alone deserve his thought
And so the heedless wanderer strays,
And treasures nought and gathers nought.
Though wisdom speak--his ear is dull;
Though virtue smile--he sees her not;
His cup of vanity is full;
And all besides forgone--forgot.
These “memorabilia” are from a three-shilling volume, entitled “Hymns,
by John Bowring,” intended as a sequel to the “Matins and Vespers.” Mr.
Bowring does not claim that his “little book” shall supply the place of
similar productions. “If it be allowed,” he says, “to add any thing to
the treasures of our devotional poetry; if any of its pages should be
hereafter blended with the exercises of domestic and social worship; or
if it shall be the companion of meditative solitude, the writer will be
more than rewarded.” All this gentleman’s poetical works, diversified as
they are, tend “to mend the heart.”
* * * * *