Tixall Poetry/The Dirge

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4307923Tixall PoetryThe DirgeArthur Cliffordunknown author

The Dirge.


What's the existence of man's life
But open war, or slumbered strife?
Where sicknes to his sense presents
The combat of the elements,
And never feeles a perfect peace,
Till Death's cold hand signs his release?

It is a storme, where the hot blood
Outvys in rage the boyling flood;
And each lov'd passion of the minde
Is like a furious gust of winde,
Which beats his bark with many a wave,
Till he casts anchor in the grave.

It is a flower, which buds and grows,
And withers as the leaves disclose;
Whose spring and fall faint seasons keep,
Like fits of waking before sleepe;
Then shrinkes into that fatal mould
Where its first being was enrol'd.

It is a dream, whose seeming truth
Is moralis'd in age and youth;
Where all the comforts he can share
As wandring as his fancys are;
Till in a mist of darke decay
The dreamer vanish quite away.

It is a dial), which points out
The sunset as it moves about;
And shadows out, in lines of night,
The subtle stages of time's flight:
Till all-obscuring earth hath layd
The body in perpetuall shade.

It is a weary interlude,
Which doth short joys, long woes include.
The world the stage, the prologue teares,
The acts, vain hope, and vary'd feares;
The scene shuts up with loss of breath,
And leaves no epilogue but death.