Take to heart my counsel; do not from fear For life, shun ills your duty is to bear. The end’s stamped on each mortal lot by Fate; No human force avails to change the date. And why crave to live on? You’ll find nought new; Nothing but the old objects to pursue; No fresh joys from life to be hammered; just Battered failures, and savouring of dust. We covet years, in the hope that they will Be generous beyond the past, and still, Although they be, hope, covet, as at first; So wide-mouthed faith; so unquenchable thirst! Never does it occur to you to glance At Fortune’s caprices, the whims of Chance, To reflect that, if added, years will not, Whatever the number, affect one jot The accounts between life and death. No strife Can be, infinite Death with finite Life. What that called “Death”? A sea beyond, before; Boundless, everlasting; no port, no shore. And “Life”? An accident. Whether at birth it fall, Or in a thousand years, concerns not Death at all! Earth’s Decay Bk. II. vv. 1145-1175 Ah! the good times, when Earth was young and new, And, day by day, in strength and beauty grew; When out of her bountiful bosom sprang Each instant, some fresh wonder into view. Instead, the mournful change! now, day by day, The rule for the old Mother is decay. Ill is the continual drain supplied, As used particles rarefy away. It is not as in the primeval age. Nought mattered it to her that at this stage, In the gay effervescence of her youth, Blind forces beat on her; she mocked their rage. Her garrison lacks food for its support. Pounded by batteries of ev’ry sort, The walls already are a pile of dust. No hope to hold longer the great World-fort. Futurity has ceased to be for Earth As in her prime of jollity and mirth. She is worn out, and weak with motherhood; No more, as once, has vigour to give birth To all kinds of being, race after race, Creatures monstrous in size, perfect in grace; All her own make; by no gold cord let down With glory on them from a higher place, Or cast up by the lashing, wailing tide.— She bears not, as when laughed on ev’ry side Cattle, corn, pastures, vines, to make hearts glad, Earth’s gifts to Man, her glory, and her pride. A changed scene ours; no longer Nature heaps The barns with sheaves; well, if the farmer keeps, After cost of labour and grain he sowed, A balance from the harvest that he reaps. His land in ancient days required no toil, Except to clear the corn from off the soil; Much less, an armoury of tools, with beeves, And a train of hirelings to drudge and moil. Some aged ploughman will be heard complain, That “labour as he may, how small the gain! Harder times these than those his father knew; A grateful task to be God-fearing then!