With no sure aim, no end in view,
And seldom knowing what to do;—
Driven, forc'd on, and in great stress,
Seeking some spot, some safe recess,
Where to arrive all out of breath,
And there to creep
To the last sleep—
Such then is Birth, and Life, and Death;
This is the way we journey on:—
God's will be done!
'Tis done: the lyre is mute;
My labors here must have an end;
Though still the Muse might wrongs impute,
That should perchance our manners mend,
(If she but had an abler friend).
But no; her work would prove in vain;
For the world's folly, int'rest, pride,
Will e'er bring trouble in their train,
However much they be decried.
'Tis vain that philosophic sects
May censure man for his defects;
They waste their wisdom and their rhymes.
Let the world wag! Go with the times!
Or live retir'd, content and free,
In some deep-hid obscurity.
There, what could fail us that might bless