I’ve Left the Giddy Throng

The dance is o’er: mine ear Hears but a phantom song, And I am lonely here. Oh, in the dark still night When shadows round us be, How vain all earth’s delight! Whom have I, Lord, but thee?

It is a fearful thing To be with self alone; To bear a closeting, With conscience on her throne: For who but feels, when still The heavy night hangs round, The boding dews that chill The sleepers under ground!

Oh, who but thinks how soon Such sleep his own must be; The cold damp sod aboon, And earth-worms feasting free: Oh, who but feels full oft His body rotting there, His robes of beauty doffed, The winding-sheet, his wear!

And who but trembles then, At what we dare to be, When mixt with thoughtless men, We too live thoughtlessly! Poor pilgrims unto death, Poor insects of a day, How dare we spend our breath As if we lived for aye.