MAN'S MORTALITY | AdventAI

International Tract and Missionary Society · Oakland, California · Apr 23, 1885

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 11, No. 17.

MAN'S MORTALITY.

[The original of this poem was found in an Irish MS. in Trinity College, Dublin. There is reason to think that the poem was written by one of those primitive Christian bards in the reign of Diarmid, about the year 554, and was sung and chanted at the last grand assembly of kings, chieftains, and lords, held in the famous halls of Tara. We publish it by request.]

LIKE a damask rose you see, Or like a blossom on a tree, Or like the dainty flower in May, Or like the morning to the day, Or like the sun, or like the shade, Or like the gourd that Jonah made; Even such is man whose thread is spun, Drawn out and out and so is done. The rose withers, the blossom blasteth, The flower fades, the morning hasteth, The sun sets, the shadow flies, The gourd consumes, the man dies.

Like the grass that's newly sprung, Or like the tale that's new begun, Or like the bird that's here to-day, Or like the pearled dew in May, Or like an hour, or like a span, Or like the singing of the swan; Even such is man, who lives by breath, Is here, now there, in life and death, The grass withers, the tale is ended, The bird is flown, the dews ascended, The hour is short, the span not long, The swan's near death, man's life is done.

Like to the bubble in the brook, Or in a glass much like a look, Or like the shuttle in weaver's hands, Or like the writing on the sands, Or like a thought, or like a dream, Or like the gliding of a stream; Even such is man, who lives by breath, Is here, now there, in life and death, The bubble's out, the look forgot, The shuttle's flung, the writing's blot, The thought is past, the dream is gone, The waters glide, man's life is done.

Like an arrow from a bow, Or like a swift course of water flow, Or like the time 'twixt flood and ebb, Or like the spider's tender web, Or like a race, or like a goal, Or like the dealing of the dole. Even such is man, whose brittle state Is always subject unto fate. The arrow shot, the flood soon spent, The time no time, the web soon rent, The race soon run, the goal soon won, The dole soon dealt, man's life soon done.

Like the lightning from the sky, Or like a post that quick doth hie, Or like a quaver in a song, Or like a journey three days long, Or like snow when summer's come, Or like a pear or like a plum; Even such is man, who heaps up sorrow, Lives but this day and dies to-morrow. The lightning's past, the post must go, The song is short, the journey so, The pear doth rot, the plum doth fall, The snow dissolves, and so must all.