Thou knew'st this _paper_ when it was Mere seed, and after that but grass; Before 'twas dressed or spun, and when Made linen, who did _wear_ it then, What were their lives, their thoughts and deeds, Whether good _corn_, or fruitless _weeds_. Thou knew'st this _tree_, when a green shade Covered it, since a _cover_ made, And where it flourished, grew, and spread, As if it never should be dead. Thou knew'st this harmless _beast_, when he Did live and feed by thy decree On each green thing; then slept, well fed, Clothed with this _skin_, which now lies spread A _covering_ o'er this aged book, Which makes me wisely weep, and look On my own dust; mere dust it is, But not so dry and clean as this. Thou knew'st and saw'st them all, and though Now scattered thus, dost know them so. O knowing, glorious Spirit! when Thou shalt restore trees, beasts and men, When thou shalt make all new again, Destroying only death and pain, Give him amongst thy works a place Who in them loved and sought thy face! H. VAUGHAN. THE BOOK OF LIFE That Life is a Comedy oft hath been shown, By all who Mortality's changes have known; But more like a Volume its actions appear, Where each Day is a Page and each Chapter a year. 'Tis a Manuscript Time shall full surely unfold, Though with Black-Letter shaded, or shining with gold; The Initial, like youth, glitters bright on its Page, But its text is as dark--as the gloom of old Age. Then Life's Counsels of Wisdom engrave on thy breast, And deep on thine Heart be her lessons impressed. Though the Title stands first it can little declare The Contents which the Pages ensuing shall bear; As little the first day of Life can explain The succeeding events which shall glide in its train. The Book follows next, and, delighted, we trace An Elzevir's beauty, a Gutenberg's grace; Thus on pleasure we gaze with as raptured an eye, Till, cut off like a Volume imperfect, we die! Then Life's Counsels of Wisdom engrave on thy breast, And deep on thine Heart be her lessons impressed. Yet e'en thus imperfect, complete, or defaced, The skill of the Printer is still to be traced; And though death bend us early in life to his will, The wise hand of our Author is visible still. Like the Colophon lines is the Epitaph's lay, Which tells of what age and what nation our day, And, like the Device of the Printer, we bear The form of the Founder, whose Image we wear. Then Life's Counsels of Wisdom engrave on thy breast, And deep on thine Heart be her lessons impressed.