TO AiV ALCHEMIST 285
But life will drive us to despair,
If Time himself must know no end. O, curse not thou the race of men With more than threescore years and ten !
If from the throats of one another
Thou couldst awhile the fangs restrain
With which each wolf devours his brother, To make men happy still were vain ;
For, all the fiercer passions past,
The beast turns miser at the last.
O, transient life of man ! How vain
Thy miserable days appear — Record of guilt, despair and pain,
Still lengthening on from year to year I Ah, who would stay the hand of fate, And give to woe an endless date ?
I see the infant doomed to weep.
Scared by a thousand causeless fears ;
Life's happier half benumbed with sleep, The rest consumed in useless tears ;
Wanting it knows not what, nor why.
Oft doubting if to laugh or cry.
The child his time in wishing wastes,
Still building castles in the air ; The youth is restless till he tastes
The cup whose waters breed despair ; Both weaklings, doomed full oft to stand Misguided by another's hand.
I see the man but as a child
More shameless grown ; he wastes life's hour In aimless schemes or actions wild,
Tormenting through abuse of power.
�� �
