ISIDOR.

Why dost thou wonder, O man, at the height of the stars, or the depth of the sea; enter into thine own soul, and wonder there.

Thy soul by creation, is infused; by infusion, created.

!EPIG. 2.

What art thou now the better by this flame?

Thou know'st not how, nor when, nor whence it came
Poor kind of happiness! that can return
No more account but this, to say, I burn.

PSALM

PSALM ciii. 16.

The wind passeth over it, and it is gone.

1.

NUpon the transitory stage

O sooner is this lighted taper set

Of eye-bedark'ning night,

But it is strait subjected to the threat
Of envious winds, whose wasteful rage

Disturbs her peaceful light,

[less bright.

And makes her substance waste, and makes her flames

No sooner are we born, no sooner come
To take possession of this vast,

This soul-afflicting earth,

But danger meets us at the very womb;
And sorrow with her full-mouth'd blast,
Salutes our painful birth,

To put out all our joys, and puff out all our mirth.

3.

Nor infant innocence, nor childish tears
Nor youthful wit, nor manly pow'r,
Nor politic old age,

Nor virgin's pleading, nor the widow's pray'rs,
Nor lowly cell, nor lofty tow'r,

Nor prince, nor peer, nor page,

Gan 'scape this common blast, or curb her stormy rage.

Scape; i. e. scape or avoid.

Our

4.

Our life is but a pilgrimage of blasts,
And ev'ry blast brings forth a fear;
And ev'ry fear a death;

The more it lengthens, ah! the more it wastes :
Were, were we to continue here

The days of long-liv'd Seth,

Our sorrows would renew, as we renew our breath.

5.

Toss'd to and fro, our frighted thoughts are driv'n
With ev'ry puff, with ev'ry tide

Of life-consuming care

Our peaceful flame, that would point up to heav'n,
Is still disturb'd, and turn'd aside;

And ev'ry blast of air

Commits such waste in man, as man cannot repair:

6.

W'are all born debtors, and we firmly stand
Oblig'd for our first parents' debt,

Besides our interest;

Alas! we have no harmless* counterbond :
And we are ev'ry hour beset

With threat'nings of arrest,

And, till we pay the debt, we can expect no rest.

7.

What may this sorrow-shaken life present,
To the false relish of our taste,

That's worth the name of sweet?

Her minute's pleasure's choak'd with discontent,
Her glory soil'd with ev'ry blast;

How many dangers meet

Poor man between the biggin† and the winding-sheet!

* Harmless ; i. e. indemnifying. dress.

Biggin; i. e. the infant's first