"THIS YEAR, THOU SHALT DIE."
Jeremiah xxviii. 16.
Seems life to thee, in future prospect long?—
In fancy dazzling, or fruition sweet?—
And wilt thou listen to a syren's song?—
Though heaven and earth in unison repeat
Life is the flower of grass,—a vision false and fleet.
Oh thou whose heart, even while it dictates, glows
Too much attach'd to this insidious cheat,
How few the measured hours that interpose
Between thy wanderings, and thy last retreat,—
Where Death's unsparing hand unveils each fair deceit.
"This year!"—how slight the barrier that divides
Thee from those loved ones in their graves that lie,
Soon pale and breathless, mouldering at their sides,
Thy fears, thy follies, thy delights shall fly
Fleet as the treacherous cloud that dimm'd the summer sky.
Hast thou no noxious passion to control
Before that hour approaches dark with shade?—
No morbid fear,—no sickness of the soul,—
No erring motive,—nor good deed delay'd,
For which thy peace with Him who pardoneth is not made?
"This year to die!"—Why all the years of man
Since forfeit Eden heard his parting sigh,
All generations with their boasted span
Are as a point to His Omniscient Eye
Who knows nor day nor night,—but rules Eternity.