p. 1 | MAN'S MORTALITY

Seventh-day Adventist Missionary Society · Oakland, California · Jun 2, 1881

MAN'S MORTALITY.

The following beautiful poem is justly considered a poetical gem of the highest order. The original is 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 King Diarmid, about the year 554, and was sung or chanted at the last grand national assembly of kings, chieftains, and bards, ever held in the famous Halls of Tara. The translation is by the learned Dr. O'Donnovan.—Pittsburg Chronicle.

LIKE as the damask rose you see, Or like a blossom on a tree, Or like a dainty flower in May, Or like the morning to the day, Or like the sun, or like the shade, Or like the gourd which Jonas had;-- Even such is man, whose thread is spun, Drawn out and cut, and so is done. The roses wither, the blossom blasteth, The flowers fade, the morning hasteth, The sun sets, the shadow flies, The gourd consumes, the man--he dies.

Like to the grass that's newly sprung, Or like a 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 a 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 dew's 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 hand, Or like the writing on the sand, Or like a thought, or like a dream, Or like the gliding of a stream;-- Even such is man, who lived 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 passed, the dream is gone, The waters glide, man's life is done.

Like to an arrow from the bow, Or like swift course of water's flow, Or like that 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 a 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 to 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 the snow when Summer's come, Or like the pear, or like the 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.