CVIII The Dirge
What is the existence of man’s life
But open war, or slumbered strife?
Where sickness to his sense presents
The combat of the elements;
And never feels a perfect peace, 5
Till death’s cold hand signs his release.
It is a storm, where the hot blood
Outvies in rage the boiling flood;
And each loud passion of the mind
Is like a furious gust of wind, 10
Which bears 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, 15
Like fits of waking before sleep:
Then shrinks into that fatal mould
Where its first being was enrolled.
It is a dream, whose seeming truth
Is moralized in age and youth: 20
Where all the comforts he can share
As wandering as his fancies are;
Till in the mist of dark decay
The dreamer vanish quite away.
It is a dial, which points out 25
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 laid
The body in perpetual shade. 30
It is a weary interlude,
Which doth short joys, long woes include;
The world the stage, the prologue tears,
The acts vain hope, and varied fears:
The scene shuts up with loss of breath, 35
And leaves no epilogue but death.
Henry King.