Thou whom chance may hither lead,Be thou clad in russet weed,Be thou deckt in silken stole,Grave these maxims on thy soul.4
Life is but a day at most,Sprung from night, in darkness lost:Hope not sunshine every hour,Fear not clouds will always lour.8
Happiness is but a name,Make content and ease thy aim,Ambition is a meteor-gleam;Fame, an idle restless dream;12
Peace, the tend’rest flow’r of spring;Pleasures, insects on the wing;Those that sip the dew alone—Make the butterflies thy own;Those that would the bloom devour—Crush the locusts, save the flower.18
For the future be prepar’d,Guard wherever thou can’st guard;But thy utmost duly done,Welcome what thou can’st not shun.Follies past, give thou to air,Make their consequence thy care:Keep the name of Man in mind,And dishonour not thy kind.Reverence with lowly heartHim, whose wondrous work thou art;Keep His Goodness still in view,Thy trust, and thy example, too.30
Stranger, go! Heaven be thy guide!Quod the Beadsman of Nidside.32