Tixall Poetry/Ps. 120. v. 4

by unknown author

PS. 120. V. 4.

 

---

 

Here our chief bliss is an uncertain joy,
Which swift vicissitudes of ill destroy.
Just as the sun, who, rising bright and gay,
In clouds and showers concludes the weeping day,
So boisterous gusts oft tender flowers invade,
By tempting winds too soon abroad betray'd
Here, envious of each other's settlement,
All things contend each other to supplant;
The second minute drives the first away,
And night's impatient to succeed the day.
The eager Summer thinks the Spring too long,
And Autumn frets that Summer is not gone.
But Autumn's self to Winter must give way,
Least its cold frosts oretake and punish his delay.
Behold yon sea, how smooth, without a frown!
See, while I speak, how curled, how rough 'tis growne!
Look how serene the sky, how calm the aire!
Now hark, it thunders round the hemisphere!
This great inconstancy of human state
Corrupts each minute of our hasty fate.
Who would be slave to such a tyrant life
That still engages him in noise and strife?
And what strange frensy must those men possess
Who blindly deem long life a happiness!