WHAT IS LIFE? WHAT is the existence of man's life Till death's cold hand signs his release. It is a storm-where the hot blood Which beats the bark with many a wave, It is a flower-which buds and grows, It is a dream-whose seeming truth Till in a mist of dark decay The dreamer vanish quite away. It is a dial-which points out It is a weary interlude— Which doth short joys, long woes, include: DR HENRY KING, 1591-1669. TIME THE COMFORTER. O TIME! Who know'st a lenient hand to lay Softest on sorrow's wound, and slowly thence (Lulling to sad repose the weary sense) The faint pang stealest, unperceived, away! And think when thou hast dried the bitter tear I may look back on every sorrow past, And meet life's peaceful evening with a smileAs some lone bird, at day's departing hour, Sings in the sunbeam of the transient shower, Forgetful, though its wings are wet the while: Yet ah! how much must that poor heart endure Which hopes from thee, and thee alone, a cure! W. L. BOWLES, 1762-1850. GRATITUDE AND HUMBLE CONTENT. LORD, Thou hast given me a cell A little house, whose humble roof Under the spars of which I lie Where Thou, my chamber for to ward, Of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep Low is my porch, as is my fate, Both void of state; And yet the threshold of my Is worn by the poor, door Who hither come, and freely get Like as my parlour, so my hall, A little buttery, and therein Which keeps my little loaf of bread Some brittle sticks of thorn or brier Close by whose living coal I sit, Lord, I confess, too, when I dine, And all those other bits that be There placed by Thee. The worts, the purslain, and the mess Which of Thy kindness Thou hast sent: Makes those, and my belovèd beet, 'Tis Thou that crown'st my glittering hearth With guiltless mirth ! And giv'st me wassail-bowls to drink, Lord, 'tis Thy plenty-dropping hand That sows my land: All this and better, dost Thou send That I should render for my part Which, fired with incense, I resign But the acceptance-that must be, ROBERT HERRICK, 1591-1660. THE COMMON LOT. MOURN not thy daughter fading! It is the common lot, That those we love should come and go, Her life was short, but fair, Unsullied by a blot; And now she sinks to dreamless rest,— (A dove who makes the earth her nest ;) So, murmur not! No pangs, nor passionate grief, Nor anger raging hot, No ills shall ever harm her more; Where pain is not. |