MAN values many things far more
Than their own worth told o'er and o'er,
Computed at its highest score.
He counts his gold with anxious care,
As his whole heart's desire were there,
And hoards up treasures for his heir.
He gives his labour, time, and health,
To add still something to his wealth,
And life enjoys as if by stealth.
When pleasure's mood his thoughts employ,
He plays with every passing joy,
Just as a child does with its toy.
He does not to reflexion call
What after reckoning may befall,
For how he has possessed them all.
In the lapse onward of his years,
Ere age or grief his spirit sears,
He keeps no note of hopes or fears.
Nor does he estimate his days,
That each its after-mead conveys,
Whether for censure or for praise,
As they deserve especially,
Each day it is his lot to see,
As bearing on futurity.
At night he tells up all his gains,
The more he gets the more he strains,
Or at his losses he complains.
And then, as one who does his best,
He folds his arms upon his breast,
And with contentment takes his rest.
Thus daily should he estimate
His bygone hours, and calculate
Their good or ill upon his fate;
That when his days all vanished have,
They may no bitter reckoning crave,—
There's no renewal in the grave.