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Though short thy span, God's unimpeached decrees
Tired of play! tired of play

To catch dame Fortune's golden smile

To mute and to material things

Twice has the sun commenced his annual round

We walked within the churchyard bounds.

Weep not for broad lands lost.

What constitutes a state?

What is this world? a wildering maze

What shall I render Thee, Father Supreme

What though the moments fly?

When the hours of Day are numbered

Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more

Yet man, fool man! here buries all his thoughts
Yet oft we see that some in humble state.
Young soldier of the Cross, beware
Your wedding-ring wears thin, dear wife; ah, sum-

Sir R. Grant

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