Take God from nature, nothing great is left.
Our birth is nothing but our death begun; As tapers waste, that instant they take fire.
What most we wish, with ease we fancy near.
And can eternity belong to me, Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour?
Ah! what is human life? How, like the dial's tardy-moving shade, Day after day slides from us unperceiv'd! The cunning fugitive is swift by stealth; Too subtle is the movement to be seen; Yet soon the hour is up--and we are gone.
How blessings brighten as they take their flight.