The Democratic Press

Written at the beginning of the 17th Century.
[We take the following beautiful lines, which breathe the spirit of true poetry, from the Edinburgh Theological Magazine. They are from the Lansdowne MSS. in the British museum, and were written over two hundred years ago.]

Like to the damask rose you see,
Or like the blossoms of ye tree,
Or like the daintie flowers in May.
Or like the morning to ye day,
Or like the sunne, or like the shade,
Or like the gourd which Jonah had,
Even such is man whose web is spunne,
Drawn out, and cutt, and soe is done.
The rose withers, the blossom blasteth,
The flower fades, the morning hasteth,
The sunne soon setts, the shadow flies,
The gourd consumes, and man-he dies.

Like to the grasse that's newly sprunge,
Or like the tale that's new begunne,
Or like the bird that's here to-day,
Or like the genial dews of May.
Or like an hour, or like a spanne,
Or like the singing of a swanne:
Even such is man who lives by breathe,
Whose hour's soone gone—soe life and death.
The grasse withers, the tale is ended,
The bird is flown, the dews ascended,
The hour is short, the spanne not long,
The swanne now dies—man's life is done.

Like to the bubble in the brooke,
Or like a glasse, much like a looke,
Or like a shuttle in weaver's hands,
Or like a writing on the sands,
Or like a thought, or like a dreame,
Or like the gliding of a streame:
Even such is man who lives by breathe,
Whose hour's soone gone—soe life and death.
The bubble's burst, the look's forgotten,
The shuttle flung, the writing blotted,
The thought is past, the dreame is gone,
The water glides—man's life is done.

Like to an acorne in a bower,
Or like swift surge of water's roar,
Or like the time 'twixt flow and ebb,
Or like the spider's tender webbe,
Or like the race, or like the goale,
Or like the wailing of a doale:
Even such is man, whose brittle state
Is always subject unto fate.
The acorn's not, the flood's soon spent,
The time's no time, the webbe soon rent,
The race soone runne, the goal soone wonne,
The grief soone ends—man's life is done.

Like to the lightning from the skie,
Or like the post that quick doth hie,
Or like a quaver in short song,
Or like a journey three days long,
Or like the snow in summer's sunne,
Or like the wood, or like the plume:
Even such is man who lives in sorrow,
He's here to-day, away to-morrow.
The lightning's past, the post must goo,
The song is short, the journey soe;
The wood doth rott, the plume doth fall,
The snow dissolves, and soe must all.
*A funeral, or some grievous event.
Three days, viz., youth, manhood and old age.