On Sunday last, we sang in church that great classic hymn with words by Isaac Watts with the stanzas, A thousand ages in thy sight Are like an evening gone; Short as the watch that ends the night Before the rising sun. Time, like an ever-rolling stream, Bears all its sons away; They fly, forgotten, as a dream Dies at the opening day. There was originally asnother stanza, now always omitted, between these two: The busy tribes of flesh and blood With all their lives and cares Are carried downwards by thy flood, And lost in following years.
An interesting conceit in this poetry, that it is Time that takes us off this mortal coil, rather than Death, or, eschewing abstraction, sickness, accident, or homicide or the instruments of the same. A rather deep metaphysical device, this transference of the agency of Death to Time.
Raising you one D, how about this expression, at once more down to earth and still theologically and metaphysically challenging, by Dr. Donne:
Death be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not soe,
For, those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill mee.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones and soules deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better than thy stroake; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.
Philosophy aside, would you agree with me that the 8th line of this is a masterpiece? It's one of my favorite lines in all literature.
