The flower that's gathered beauty soon forsakes; The bliss grows feeble as we gain the prize; Love dreams of joy, and in possession wakes, Scarce time enough to hail it ere it dies: Life intermingles, with its cares and sighs, And rapture's dreams are ended. Heavenly flower! It is not so with thee! Still fancy's power Throws rainbow halos round thee, and thine eyes, That once did steal their sapphire blue from even, Are beaming on; thy cheeks' bewitching dye, Where partial roses all their blooms had given, Still in fond memory with the rose can vie; And thy sweet bosom, which to view was heaven, No lily yet a fairer hue supplies. THE VANITIES OF LIFE [The reader has been made acquainted with the circumstances under which this poem was written. It was included by Mr. J. H. Dixon in his "Ballads and Songs of the Peasantry of England" (edited by Robert Bell), with the following prefatory note:-- "The poem was, probably, as Clare supposes, written about the commencement of the 18th century, and the unknown author appears to have been deeply imbued with the spirit of the popular devotional writers of the preceding century, as Herbert, Quarles, &c., but seems to have modelled his smoother and more elegant versification after that of the poetic school of his own times." Montgomery's criticism on publishing it in the "Sheffield Iris" was as follows:-- "Long as the poem appears to the eye, it will abundantly repay the trouble of perusal, being full of condensed and admirable thought, as well as diversified with exuberant imagery, and embellished with peculiar felicity of language. The moral points in the closing couplets of the stanzas are often powerfully enforced."] "Vanity of vanities, all is vanity."--Solomon. What are life's joys and gains? What pleasures crowd its ways, That man should take such pains To seek them all his days? Sift this untoward strife On which the mind is bent: See if this chaff of life Is worth the trouble spent. Is pomp thy heart's desire? Is power thy climbing aim? Is love thy folly's fire? Is wealth thy restless game? Pomp, power, love, wealth, and all Time's touchstone shall destroy, And, like base coin, prove all Vain substitutes for joy. Dost think that pride exalts Thyself in other's eyes, And hides thy folly's faults, Which reason will despise? Dost strut, and turn, and stride, Like a walking weathercock? The shadow by thy side Will be thy ape, and mock. Dost think that power's disguise Can make thee mighty seem? It may in folly's eyes, But not in worth's esteem, When all that thou canst ask, And all that she can give, Is but a paltry mask Which tyrants wear and live. Go, let thy fancies range And ramble where they may; View power in every change, And what is the display? --The county magistrate, The lowest shade in power, To rulers of the state, The meteors of an hour:--