Tixall Poetry/The Dirge
The Dirge.
What's the existence of man's lifeBut open war, or slumbered strife?Where sicknes to his sense presentsThe 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 bloodOutvys in rage the boyling flood;And each lov'd passion of the mindeIs 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 mouldWhere its first being was enrol'd.
It is a dream, whose seeming truthIs moralis'd in age and youth;Where all the comforts he can shareAs wandring as his fancys are;Till in a mist of darke decayThe dreamer vanish quite away.
It is a dial), which points outThe sunset as it moves about;And shadows out, in lines of night,The subtle stages of time's flight:Till all-obscuring earth hath laydThe 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.