Tixall Poetry/The Dirge

by unknown author

The Dirge.

 

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What's the existence of man's life
But open war, or slumbered strife?
Where sicknes to his sense presents
The 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 blood
Outvys in rage the boyling flood;
And each lov'd passion of the minde
Is 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 mould
Where its first being was enrol'd.

It is a dream, whose seeming truth
Is moralis'd in age and youth;
Where all the comforts he can share
As wandring as his fancys are;
Till in a mist of darke decay
The dreamer vanish quite away.

It is a dial), which points out
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 layd
The 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.

 

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