Classic Poem

THE WORLD.

In this world see the wheel of transition go round,
For there's nothing on earth that can stable be found,
And tho' 'bout its possessions, we make such a clamor,
They must sooner or later come under the hammer,
And a going, a going, who bids any more?
Requites all our pains, is the end of our store.

His grace, who a monarch's proud fortune can boast,
Who ransacks each land, and plunders each coast,
Whose houses display all that's splendid and great,
Whose equipage moves in such glittering state,
To day it is his, to-morrow you'll see,
Some hammer consign it to you, or to me.

The sly antiquary, who, where he can't buy,
Will pilfer the medal that fixes his eye,
Whose antiques, books, paintings, and all that is rare,
The hoarding of fifty years trouble and care,
See C HRISTIE knock down, no antiques respecting,
For their owner some coins that are modern collecting.

Old grub who refuses each comfort to share,
To leave an estate to his favourite heir,
Could he peep from the shades his estate would survey
'Mongst fidlers, girls, gigs, bits of blood, fly away;
Till T ATTERSAL soon the treasure spreads wide,
To make fools and knaves of hundreds beside.

Then how silly this boast of what has no stay,
But flies on the wings of a going away,
Who bids any more? is the end of it all,
And this world we may safely an auction room call;
But the mind's bright possessions all transfer disown,
So cherish their increase for they are your own.