Classic Poem

" THE life of man is a perpetual war,
In misery and sorrow circular.
He, a poor mercenary, serves for bread;
For all his travail, only cloth'd and fed.
The hireling longs to see the shades ascend,
That with the tedious day his toil might end,
And he his pay receive; but, ah! in vain
I months consume, yet never rest obtain.
The night charms not my cares; with sleepless eyes
My torments cry — When will the morning rise?
Why runs the chariot of the night so slow?
The day-star finds me tossing to and fro.
Worms gnaw my flesh; with filth my ulcers run;
My skin like clods of earth, chapp'd with the sun.
Like shuttles through the loom, so swiftly glide
My feather'd hours, and all my hopes deride!
Remember, Lord, my life is but a wind,
Which passeth by, and leaves no print behind.
Then never shall my eyes their lids unfold,
Nor mortal sight my vanish'd face behold;
Not Thou, to Whom our thoughts apparent be,
Shouldst Thou desire, couldst him, that is not, see.
As clouds resolve to air, so never more,
Shall gloomy graves their dead to light restore;
Nor shall they to their sumptuous roofs return,
But lie forgotten, as if never born.
Then, O my soul! whilst thou hast freedom, break
Into complaints, give sorrow leave to speak.
Am I a raging sea or furious whale,
That thou should'st thus confine me with a wall?
How often when the rising stars had spread
Their golden flames, said I: " Now shall my bed
Refresh my weary limbs, and peaceful sleep
My care and anguish in his Lethe steep."
But lo! sad dreams my troubled brains surprise,
And ghastly visions wound my staring eyes:
So that my yielding soul, subdu'd with grief,
And tortur'd body, to their last relief
Would gladly fly; and by a violence
Less painful, take from greater pain the sense.
For life is but my curse. Resume the breath
I must restore, and fold me up in death.
O what is man, to whom Thou shouldst impart
So great an honour as to search his heart;
To watch his steps, observe him with Thine eye,
And daily with renew'd afflictions try!
Still must I suffer? wilt Thou never leave,
Nor give a little time for grief to breathe?
My soul hath sinn'd; how can I expiate
Her guilt, great Guardian, or prevent Thy hate?
Why aim'st Thou all Thy darts at me alone,
Who to myself am now a burthen grown?
Wilt Thou not to a broken heart dispense
Thy balm of mercy, and expunge th' offence,
Ere dust return to dust? Then Thou no more
Shalt see my face, nor I Thy Name adore. "