The Virginia Gazette

POET'S CORNER

PICTURE of LIFE.

WHAT is this Life, that Mortals idly crave?
The noisy Passport to the silent Grave.
Each Moment sinks the Value of the Prize,
And Death is daily marching 'fore our Eyes.
Drunk with the Joys of Life, we heed him not
Till Sickness warns us of the common Lot;
The Lot which levels all on equal Terms,
And gives an Olio Banquet to the Worms,
That rudely gnaw, in undistinguishing Graves,
The Flesh of Emperours, and Flesh of Slaves.
Abashing, humbling Thought! enough to force
Strong-wing'd Ambition from her Eagle Course;
Enough to curb the self-sufficient Will,
And bid the Lust of earthly Praise be still.
What is this Life? A temporary Stage,
Where divers Men in divers Parts engage:
The fleeting Forms in quick Succession glide,
As one moves off his Absence is supply'd;
And should some favourite Actor quit the Scene,
Into his Place another steps serene;
Serene, and full of Self, he tries to soar,
And reach a Height that ne'er was reach'd before.
Behold the wither'd, sapless Tree of Fame,
That boasts no other Virtue but the Name,
Yet, by the Dupes of Adoration view'd,
Its Trunk appears magnificently rude;
In Shatter'd Pomp it still attracts the Sight,
And warns each Novice with a strange Delight.
In vain, for Souls renown'd in ancient Days
With greedy Hands have pre-engross'd her Bays,
Each Twig so rifled that no Modern now
Can find one Leaf to dignify his Brow.
Yet, though her Branches gradually fade,
Man still seeks Refuge in her scanty Shade.
Vain, foolish Man! when all the precious Fruit
Is torn away, to reverence the Root.