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ECCLESIASTES.
147
And as the flower, when it hath borne its fruit,
Doth pass, we know not how, we know not where;
So he who to the world hath given hope,
Doth for his portion take the world's despair.
Because there cometh yet a darker time,
Wherein the broken cisterns hold no more ;
Wherein the mourners go about the streets,
And work, the last of joys, shall all be o'er ; —
Rejoice, O young man ! in thy pride of life,
Sing, seer ! the songs that will not come again ;
But know that still for these the judgment waits,
And God shall hold thee steward of thy pain.
