And what is Life?— An hour-glass on the run,
A mist retreating from the morning sun,
A busy, bustling, still repeated dream;
Its length?— A minute's pause, a moment's thought;
And happiness?— A bubble on the stream,
That in the act of seizing shrinks to naught.

What are vain Hopes?— The puffing gale of morn,
That of its charms divests the dewy lawn,
And robs each flow'ret of its gem—and dies;
A cobweb hiding disappointment's thorn,
Which stings more keenly through the thin disguise.

And thou, O Trouble?— nothing can suppose
(And sure the power of wisdom only knows)
What need requireth thee:
So free and liberal as thy bounty flows,
Some necessary cause must surely be.
But disappointments, pains, and every woe
Devoted wretches feel,
The universal plagues of life below,
Are mysteries still 'neath Fate's unbroken seal.

And what is Death? is still the cause unfound?
That dark, mysterious name of horrid sound?—
A long and lingering sleep, the weary crave.
And Peace? where can its happiness abound?—
Nowhere at all, save heaven, and the grave.

Then what is Life?— When stripp'd of its disguise,
A thing to be desir'd it cannot be;
Since everything that meets our foolish eyes
Gives proof sufficient of its vanity.
'Tis but a trial all must undergo;
To teach unthankful mortals how to prize
That happiness vain man's denied to know,
Until he's call'd to claim it in the skies.

Come, sweet ones, come to the fields with me, 
I hear the hum of the honey bee, 
I hear the call of the gray cuckoo, 
I hear the note of the shrill curlew; 
I hear the cry of the hunting hawk,
The sound of the dove in our 'custom'd walk, 
The song of the lark, the tongue of the rill. 
The shepherds' shout on the pasture hill. 

My sweet ones, all come forth and play. 
The air is balm, and I smell new hay; 
Come, breathe of the flowers, and see how neat 
The milkmaid trips on her scented feet; 
Young folks come forth all joy, and run 
Abroad as bright as beams of the sun; 
Old men stop out with a sadder grace,
And matrons come with a graver pace. 

The smoke streams up, and the air is rife 
With joy, and all is light and life; 
From east to west there's not a stain 
In all the sky, and the birds are fain,
And the beasts are glad, while man in song 
Breaks out, for rain has lorded long, 
And earth has drunk more than her need 
To fill her flowers and nurse her seed. 

Now, now ye come, my little ones all,
As the young doves come at their mothers' call; 
One run to yon tall foxglove, and see
At his breakfast of balm the golden bee;
Another go hunt from bud to bloom
The worm that flies with a painted plume,
Or see the doe solicitous lead
Her twin fawns forth to the odorous mead,
Or mark the nestlings newly flown,
With their tender wings and their crests of down. 

But stay, my children. Ere ye run, 
Who made the sky and yon glorious sun? 
Who framed the earth, and strewed it sweet 
With flowers, and set it 'neath mankind's feet? 
'Twas ONE in heaven. Kneel down, and lay 
Your white foreheads to the grass, and pray; 
And render him praise, and seek to be 
Pure, good, and modest — then come with me.