Samuel Kettell, ed. Specimens of American Poetry. 1829.
By Vanity of VanitiesMichael Wigglesworth (1631–1705)
V
Learn what thou art when thy estate is best:
A restless wave o’ the troubled ocean,
A dream, a lifeless picture finely dress’d.
A wheel that stands not still, a trembling reed,
A trolling stone, dry dust, light chaff and stubble,
A shadow of something but truly nought indeed.
This world, and all its best enjoyments be:
Out of the earth no true contentment springs,
But all things here are vexing vanity.
Or what is pleasure, but the devil’s bait,
Whereby he catcheth whom he would devour,
And multitudes of souls doth ruinate.
Whom death from us may quickly separate:
Or else their hearts may quite estranged be,
And all their love be turned into hate.
Uncertain, fickle, and ensnaring things;
They draw men’s souls into perdition,
And when most needed, take them to their wings.
Such empty shadows, such wild fowl as these,
That being gotten will be quickly gone,
And whilst they stay increase but his disease.
The more he drinks, the more he still requires;
So on this world, whoso affection sets,
His wealth’s increase, increaseth his desires.
Where floods, where flames, where foes cannot bereave him
Most wretched man that fixed hath his love
Upon this world, that surely will deceive him.
Whereto men’s hearts so restlessly aspire?
Whom have they crowned with felicity?
When did they ever satisfy desire?
To see new lights still coveteth the eye:
The craving stomach, though it may be still’d
Yet craves again without a new supply.
Whose little heart would all the world contain,
(If all the world should fall to one man’s lot,)
And notwithstanding empty still remain.
When he the Indian ocean did view,
To see his conquest bounded by the deep,
And no more worlds remaining to subdue.
Or envy him, or covet his estate,
Whose gettings do augment his greediness,
And make his wishes more intemperate.
Of those on earth that bear the greatest sway;
If with a few the case be otherwise,
They seek a kingdom that abides for aye.
That rule, and are in highest places set,
Are most inclin’d to scorn their bretheren;
And God himself (without great grace) forget.
That for a time they nought discern aright:
So honor doth befool and blind the wise,
And their own lustre ’reaves them of their sight.
Through which, whilst others sleep, they scarcely nap,
And yet are oft surprised unawares,
And fall unwilling into envy’s trap.
All void of fear sleepeth the country clown:
When greatest princes often are distress’d
And cannot sleep upon their beds of down.
Could wealth or honor keep them from decay,
There were some cause the same to idolize,
And give the lie to that which I do say.
Without the hazard of a change, one hour,
Nor such as trust in them can they secure,
From dismal days, or death’s prevailing power.
From death’s dominion, then fair Absalom
Had not been brought to such a shameful end:
But fair and foul unto the grave must come.
Then wealthy Crœsus, wherefore art thou dead?
If warlike force, which makes the world to quake,
Then why is Julius Cæsar perished?
Renowned Pompey, Cæsar’s enemy?
Stout Hannibal, Rome’s terror known so far?
Great Alexander, what’s become of thee?
If power, if force, or threat’nings might it fray,
All these, and more had still surviving been:
But all are gone, for death will have no nay.
Such are the men whom worldly eyes admire,
Cut down by time, and now become a story,
That we might after better things aspire.
Vain man! Triumph in all thy worldly bliss:
Thy best enjoyments are but trash and toys,
Delight thyself in that which worthless is.