Odes.
87
AN ODE.
I.
What art thou, Life! whose stay we court?
What is thy rival Death, we fear?
Since we 're but fickle Fortune's sport,
Why should we wish t' inhabit here,
And think the race we find so rough too short? 5
What art thou, Life! whose stay we court?
What is thy rival Death, we fear?
Since we 're but fickle Fortune's sport,
Why should we wish t' inhabit here,
And think the race we find so rough too short? 5
II.
While in the womb we forming lie,
While yet the lamp of life displays
A doubtful dawn with feeble rays,
New issuing from Non-entity,
The shell of flesh pollutes with sin 10
Its gem, the soul, just enter'd in,
And, by transmitted vice defil'd,
The fiend commences with the child.
While in the womb we forming lie,
While yet the lamp of life displays
A doubtful dawn with feeble rays,
New issuing from Non-entity,
The shell of flesh pollutes with sin 10
Its gem, the soul, just enter'd in,
And, by transmitted vice defil'd,
The fiend commences with the child.
III.
In this dark region future fates are bred,
And mines of secret ruin laid. 15
Hot fevers here long kindling lie,
Prepar'd with flaming whips to rage,
And lash on ling'ring destiny,
Whene'er excess has fir'd our riper age.
Here brood, in infancy, the gout and stone, 20
Fruits of our fathers' follies, not our own.
In this dark region future fates are bred,
And mines of secret ruin laid. 15
Hot fevers here long kindling lie,
Prepar'd with flaming whips to rage,
And lash on ling'ring destiny,
Whene'er excess has fir'd our riper age.
Here brood, in infancy, the gout and stone, 20
Fruits of our fathers' follies, not our own.
