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The Book of Praise.
I praised the sun, whose chariot roll'd On wheels of amber and of gold; I praised the moon, whose softer eye Gleam'd sweetly through the summer sky/ And moon and sun in answer said, " Our days of light are numbered."
O God ! O Good beyond compare !
If thus Thy meaner works are fair,
If thus Thy bounties gild the span
Of ruin'd earth and sinful man,
How glorious must the mansion be,
Where Thy redeem'd shall dwell with Thee !
Bishop Reginald Heber. 1827.
CCCLXII.
Our life is but an idle play,
And various as the wind ; We laugh and sport our hours away,
Nor think of woes behind.
See the fair cheek of beauty fade,
Frail glory of an hour ; And blooming youth, with sickening head,
Droops like the dying flower.
Our pleasures, like the morning sun,
Diffuse a flattering light; But gloomy clouds obscure their noon,
And soon they sink in night.
Wealth, pomp, and honour, we behold
With an admiring eye ; Like summer insects, drest in gold,
That flutter, shine, and die. |
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