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ON ANGLING. |
201 |
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And who shall say that his thread of years
Is a life more blest than thine ! Has his feverish dream of doubts and fears
Such joys as those which shine In the constant pleasures of thy way, Most happy child of the happy May ?
For thou wert born when the earth was clad With her robe of buds and flowers,
And didst float about with a sou! as glad As a bird in the sunny showers;
And the hour of thy death had a sweet repose.
Like a melody, sweetest at its close.
Nor too brief the date of thy cheerful race—-
'Tis its use that measures time— And the mighty Spirit that fills all space
With His life and His will sublime, May see that the May-fly and the Man Each flutter out the same small span.
And the fly that is born with the sinking sun,
To die ere the midnight hour. May have deeper joy, ere his course be run.
Than man in his pride aud power ; And the insects minutes be spared the fears And the anxious doubts of our tliroc.scorr years. |
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