Classic Poem

What are the pleasures life can represent,
That our pursuits are thus so anxious bent?
Life's but an emblem of a winter's day,
This moment here, the next, far, far away!
A wilder'd maze, confin'd, yet infinite,
Which neither yields enjoyment or delight.
Our life is but a universal stage,
Mankind unanimous their parts engage;
Time shifts and prompts the scenes of tragedy,
Death ends the drama in eternity!
Yet various are the parts men undertake,
A quick dispatch in this dull work to make,
The Miser studious to augment his store,
He starves himself, his servants do no more,
Who could expect that he, who would deny
His own, would other peoples wants supply?
Like Tantalus , he still in plenty starves,
And punishes himself as he deserves:
What happiness from life can we receive,
When we deny ourselves what it would give?
The Spendthrift next employs the shifting theme,
As of contrary, to the last extreme,
He livishes profusely round his store,
And thinks his present joy will ne'er be o'er.
But, ah, alas! how fatal is the scene,
When pinching Poverty aghast steps in!
Extravagance is now exchang'd for nought,
He's wise too late, his wisdom's dearly bought;
The miser starves in wealth, he starves in want,
He would enjoy what t'other will not grant.
Ye youthful prodigals your ears incline,
To prudent council, moral, not divine,
Be neither parsimonious, or profuse,
But still the middle way let prudence chuse.
See! where the frantic Monk invokes his saints
To pardon all his sins with false complaints,
With superfluous pray'r he counts his beads,
And says, where one might serve, an hundred creeds:
In supererogation, too, he brags,
And proudly flutters, tho' equipt in rags!
And opposite to him, O muse survey,
The dwindling prostitute in his decay!
Nor pray'r, remorse, or penitence e'er curb'd
His lewd enjoyments, or his lusts disturb'd,
Or if they did, he slip'd them smoothly by,
And said, when he'd more leisure, they might cry.
The Bigot thus—and thus the Debauchee,
Hold each thus to his own absurdity.
See where the Hero in the crimson field,
Seeks honours, fame or fortune ne'er shall yield,
Urg'd on by thirst of conquest, still he strives,
To reach that fame at which he ne'er arrives:
Infatuated mortal thus to think,
That glory stands but on destruction's brink;
Let not misguided hopes allure thy eyes,
Act well thy part there all thy honour lies;
Confirm a peace with God and all mankind,
And gain the recompence for that assign'd.
Then view the hermit in his moss-grown cell,
Where peace, content, and virtue ever dwell:
To no ambitious aims his views aspire,
To live contended is his sole desire;
He scorns the dire emotions of the field,
Nor would for honour bear the pond'rous shield;
His God and Heav'n employ his constant care,
He only hopes for real glory there.
Then why should man with anxious toils employ,
Their minds on what they never can enjoy?
Life is a bauble, fleeting as the wind,
A state of probity for all assign'd.
Then let us learn to husband well our span,
For 'tis the work that magnifies the man.