The Complaint of Nature

Few are thy days

and full of woe

O man of wo­man born!

Thy doom is writ­ten

Dust thou art

And shalt to dust re­turn.

Determined are the days that fly

Successive o’er thy head;

The num­bered hour is on the wing

That lays thee with the dead.

Alas! the lit­tle day of life

Is short­er than a span;

Yet black with thou­sand hid­den ills

To mi­se­ra­ble man.

Gay is thy morn­ing; flat­ter­ing hope

Thy spright­ly step at­tends;

But soon the tem­pest howls behind

And then dark night des­cends.

Before its splen­did hour

the cloud

Comes o’er the beam of light:

A pil­grim in a wea­ry land

Man tar­ries but a night.

Behold! sad em­blem of thy state

The flow­ers that paint the field;

Or trees

that crown the mount­ain’s brow

And boughs and blos­soms yield.

When chill the blast of win­ter blows

Away the sum­mer flies

The flow­ers re­sign their sun­ny robes

And all their beau­ty dies.

Nipped by the year

the for­est fades;

And

shak­ing to the wind

The leaves toss to and fro

and streak

The wil­der­ness behind.

The win­ter past

re­viv­ing flow­ers

Anew shall paint the plain;

The woods shall hear the voice of spring

And flour­ish green again:

But man de­parts this earth­ly scene

Ah! nev­er to re­turn!

No se­cond spring shall e’er re­vive

The ash­es of the urn.

The in­ex­or­able doors of death

What hand can e’er un­fold?

Who from the ce­re­ments of the tomb

Can raise the hu­man mould?

The migh­ty flood that rolls along

Its tor­rents to the main

The wa­ters lost can ne’er re­call

From that abyss again.

The days

the years

the ag­es

dark

Descending down to night

Can nev­er

nev­er be re­deemed

Back to the gates of light.

So man de­parts the liv­ing scene

To night’s per­pe­tu­al gloom;

The voice of morn­ing ne’er shall break

The slum­bers of the tomb.

Where are our fa­thers? whi­ther gone

The migh­ty men of old?

The pa­tri­archs

pro­phets

princ­es

kings

In sac­red books en­rolled?

Gone to the rest­ing place of man

The ev­er­last­ing home

Where ag­es past have gone be­fore

Where fu­ture ag­es come.

Thus Na­ture poured the wail of woe

And urged her ear­nest cry;

Her voice in ago­ny ex­treme

Ascended to the sky.

The Al­migh­ty heard; then from His throne

In ma­jes­ty He rose;

And from the heav’n

that op­ened wide

His voice in mer­cy flows.

“When mor­tal man re­signs his breath

And falls a clod of clay

The soul im­mor­tal wings its flight

To nev­er set­ting day.

Pre­pared of old for wick­ed men

The bed of tor­ment lies;

The just shall en­ter in­to bliss

Immortal in the skies.