ODE XXIII.—THE VANITY OF WEALTH.
Could glittering heaps, or golden store,
Life preserve, or health restore,
Then with ceaseless, anxious pain,
Riches I would strive to gain,[1]
That should death, unwish'd for, come,
Pointing to the dreary tomb,
I might cry, in sprightly tone,
"Here's my ransom, Death! begone!"
But, alas! since well I know
Life cannot be purchased so,
Why indulge the useless sigh?
Fate decrees that all shall die.
Vainly to our wealth we trust,
Poor or wealthy—die we must.
Present joys then let me share,
Rosy wine to banish care;
Cheerful friends that faithful prove,
Beauty's smiles and blissful love.
- ↑ There is an anecdote in the history of Anacreon, recorded by Stobæus, to which this ode may possibly bear some allusion. He relates that Anacreon, having received a present of five talents of gold from Polycrates, tyrant of Samos, was so embarrassed with cares and solicitudes about his treasure, that he could not sleep for two nights successively: whereon he sent back the present with this apology to his patron, "That however valuable the sum might be, it was not a sufficient price for the trouble and anxiety of keeping it."