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What! were ye born to be
An hour or half's delight,
And so to bid good-night?
'Twas pity Nature brought ye forth
Merely to show your worth,
And lose you quite.
But you are lovely leaves, where we
May read how soon things have
Their end, though ne'er so brave:
And after they have shown their pride
Like you a while, they glide
Into the grave.
468. MAN'S DYING-PLACE UNCERTAIN.
Man knows where first he ships himself, but he
Never can tell where shall his landing be.
469. NOTHING FREE-COST.
Nothing comes free-cost here; Jove will not let
His gifts go from him, if not bought with sweat.
470. FEW FORTUNATE.
Many we are, and yet but few possess
Those fields of everlasting happiness.
