A Serious Reflection On Human Life Poem by Henry Baker

How vain is Man! how foolish all his Ways!
How short, and yet, how sorrowful his Days!
From Life's first Moment, to its latest Date,
A painful, careful, miserable State!
Languid as Sunshine in a Winter's Day,
Its worthless Joys, scarce tasted, haste away:
But Grief, and Labour, everlasting flow,
And make out one continu'd Scene of Woe.

Like Blades of Grass, poor Mortals fall, and rise;
Here one springs up, one withers there, and dies:
This Sun restores the Loss of Yesterday,
To--morrow takes, what this restor'd, away.
Thus fiery Meteors dance along the Plain,
Now up, now down, now seen, now lost again.

Man's Infant--State is chiefly pass'd in Tears;
His Youth in Bondage under Tyrant Fears;
Manhood drives headlong with a loosen'd Rein,
By Passion spur'd, nor Reason can restrain;
And in Old Age even Life it self is Pain.
Thus ev'ry Stage peculiar Sorrow knows,
As Years on Years so Woes increase on Woes.

On Man, if poor, ten thousand Ills attend,
Abandon'd, comfortless, He knows no Friend;
A wretched Life his Labours scarce sustain,
Begun, continu'd, and dragg'd on with Pain.
By All regarded with a scornful Eye,
Despis'd He lives, does unlamented die:
No pompous Obsequies his Coarse shall have,
Alone, and unattended to the Grave.

But, if the Gods have doom'd him rich, and great,
He stands a Mark for all the Darts of Fate:
So lofty Mountains Storms and Tempests know,
While gentle Calms bless all the Plains below.

Tho' on his Brows a Regal--Circle blaze,
And wond'ring Crowds at humble Distance gaze,
Wait ev'ry Nod, his each Command obey,
Aw'd by the false delusive Charms of Sway,
He sadly feels that Weight which bends him down,
And finds there's no Enjoyment in a Crown:
Distinguish'd by his Purple, and his Cares,
His Grief's superior, as the Rank He bears.

No Age, no State, unhappy Mortals know,
Which is not full, and over--charg'd with Woe:
Troubles from Life, as Sparks from Fire, 'rise;
Man's born, knows Care, looks round, laments, and dies.