The Preacher

Rejoice, O man, in youth's fresh prime, While all around thee pleasures pour; Beguile with mirth the fleeting time, And fill with joy each varied hour:

Court willing beauty to thine arms, Regale thy taste with rosy wine; Let music open all her charms, And soothe thy soul with airs divine:

Let fortune scatter riches round, More than thy wishes could desire; Thy plans with bright success be crown'd, While wond'ring crowds thy state admire:

Behold, with pride, thy lofty seat O'erlook thy wide extended farms; Thy fields with plenteous flocks replete, Thy gardens bright in Flora's charms:

Yet cares will round thy dwelling wait, Still multiply'd by gloomy spleen; Grief will invade thy rooms of state, And sickness aim its dart unseen.

Then since nor wealth's nor pleasure's charm Can soothe the soul with grief oppress'd, Nor stop stern death's uplifted arm. When aim'd to strike the sickly breast.

Let other thoughts thy mind employ, Let true religion be thy guide; Let virtuous acts be all thy joy, And temp'rance at thy board preside.

Then shall thy life with pleasure flow: And when the grave demands its prey; Pleas'd shalt thou leave a world of woe For regions of eternal day.