A Few Short Years From Now

Say, art thou angry? words unkind Have fallen upon thine ear, Thy spirit hath been wounded too By mocking jest or sneer, But mind it not—relax at once Thine o’ercast and troubled brow— What will be taunt or jest to thee In a few short years from now? Or, perhaps thou mayst be pining Beneath some bitter grief, From whose pangs in vain thou seekest Or respite or relief; Fret not ’neath Heav’n’s chastening rod But submissive to it bow; Thy griefs will all be hushed to rest In a few short years from now. Art toiling for some worldly aim, Or for some golden prize, Devoting to that glitt’ring goal Thy thoughts, thy smiles, thy sighs? Ah! rest thee from the idle chase, With no bliss can it endow; Of fame or gold, what will be thine In a few short years from now? It may be pleasure’s roseate dreams Possess thy wayward heart, Its gilded gauds for better things Leaving alas! no part; Ah! cast away the gems and flowers That bind thy thoughtless brow, Where will their gleam or brightness be In a few short years from now? The good thou may’st on earth have done, Love to a brother shown— Pardon to foe—alms unto need— Kind word or gentle tone; The treasures thus laid up in Heav’n By the good on earth done now, These will alone remain to thee, In a few short years from now.