117
TO A FRIEND IN AFFLICTION.
THE boasted joys of time, how swift they fly,
Rent from the heart, and hidden from the eye!
An hour they flourish, in an hour decay,
Bend to the earth, and fade, and pass away.
But we, frail beings! shrinking from the storm,
We love these skies which gathering clouds deform,
We lean too fondly on our house of clay,
Though every blast may sweep some prop away;
Yet wounded oft, as oft renew our toil,
To raise a fabric on this mould'ring soil,
And still we strive, forgetful of the grave,
To sink an anchor in the tossing wave.
But He, who marks us in our vain career,
Oft smites in pity what we hold most dear;
Spreads o'er the face belov'd the deathful gloom,
And hides a parent in the lonely tomb;
Makes the sad heart his strong correction feel,
Wounds to admonish, and afflicts to heal;
Reminds the spirit of her heavenly birth,
And breaks her strong alliance with the earth,
Warns her to seek for better climes, prepar'd,
To give the faithful soul a full reward.
