At length the whole secret of life is told: 'Tis because we're earth, and not of gold, 'Tis because we're ware that beware we must, Lest we crack, and break, and crumble to dust. What wonder that men so clash together, And in the clash so break with each other! Or that households are full of family jars, And boys are such pickles in spite of papas! That the cup of ill-luck is drained to the dregs, When a man's in his cups and not on his legs! That meaning should be in that word for a sot, He's ruined forever--he's going to pot! So goes the world and its generations, So go its tribes, and its tribulations; Crowding together on the stream of time, It almost destroys the chime of my rhyme, While they strike, and they grind, and rub and dash, And are sure to go to eternal smash. Lamentable sight to be seen here below! Man after man sinking,--blow after blow,-- A bubble, a choke,--each blow is a knell,-- Broken forever! There's no more to tell. * * * * * There _is_ more to tell, of a promise foretold; Though now 'tis a vessel of homeliest mold, Yet 'tis that which will prove a crock of gold, When the crack of doom shall the truth unfold. 'Tis hard to believe, for so seemeth life, A cruse full of oil, with nothing more rife; Yet what saith the prophet? It never shall fail: Life is perennial, of immortal avail. 'Tis hard to believe, for to dust we return, To lie like the ashes in a burial urn; But look at the skies! see the heavenly bowers! The urn is a vase--the ashes are flowers! 'Tis hard to believe; like a jar full of tears, Life is filled with humanity's griefs and fears; 'Tis a tear-jar o'erflowing, close by the urn, Even weeping for those in that gloomy sojourn. And yet, when with time it has crumbled away, The omnipotent Potter will in that day Turn again to the pattern of Paradise, Will fashion it anew and bid it arise, A jar full adorned and with richest designs, With tracery covered, and heavenly signs, With jewels deep-set, and with fine gold inlaid, Enamel of love,--yes, a nature new made. And then from the deep bottom, as from a cup Of blessing, there ever will come welling up The living waters of a pellucid soul, A gush of the spirit, from a heart made whole. So, like the water-pots rough, by the door at the East, Our purpose will change, and our power be increased, When we stand in the gate of the Heavenly Feast: The word will be spoken: we'll flow out with wine The blood of the true Life, pressed from the true Vine, Perpetual chalice, inexhaustible bowl, Of pleasures immortal, overflowing the soul! Dust we are and to dust we must return--but, as the old epitaph said of Catherine Gray, who sold pottery,-- 'In some tall pitcher or broad pan She in life's shop may live again,'-- so, in a higher sphere we may all become vases unbreakable, filled with the wine of life.