The Patowmac Guardian, And Berkeley Advertiser

SEAT OF THE MUSES.

Ecclesiastes
All Things are full of Labour.

AH, what a busy world is this?
A restless, noisy bubble!
There's no such thing as solid bliss,
Uncharged with care and trouble.
The sweets, the joys which here are found,
Vain joys ourselves have tasted;
Are but the same laborious round,
A thousand times repeated.
The Sun each morn so early seen,
Sweats up the eastern steep;
And then as fast goes down again,
And seeks his native deep.
The moon too, like her Sister made,
Goes laboring on with pain;
Till of her burden brought to bed,
And then grows young again.
Now Flora's dress'd in all her pride here,
Straight Summer's dog days enter:
Next Autumn brings us wine and cyder,
And then again comes Winter.
These are industrious, all must own,
For nature's seldom idle;
Shall man then, lordly man alone,
Refuse to bear the bridle?
No: we too have our rounds;—'tis light,
We eat—we drink—we play;
At noon the same, the same at night,
And so conclude the day.