On The Vicissitudes Of Life


The Caliph Radhi Billah

Mortal joys, however pure,

Soon their turbid source betray;

Mortal bliss, however sure,

Soon must totter and decay.

You who now, with footsteps keen,

Range through Hope's delusive field,

Tell us what the smiling scene

To your ardent grasp can yield?

Other youths have often before

Thought their joys would never fade,

Until themselves were seen no moreŚ

Swept into oblivion's shade.

Who, with health and pleasure gay,

Before his fragile state could know,

Were not age and pain to sayŚ

Man is just the child of woe?

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