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James Thomson - A Complaint On The Miseries Of Life
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I loathe, O Lord, this life below, 
And all its fading fleeting joys; 
`Tis a short space that`s fill`d with woe, 
Which all our bliss by far outweighs. 
When will the everlasting morn 
With dawning light the skies adorn? 
Fitly this life`s compared to night, 
When gloomy darkness shades the sky; 
Just like the morn`s our glimmering light 
Reflected from the Deity. 
When will celestial morn dispel 
These dark surrounding shades of hell? 
I`m sick of this vexatious state, 
Where cares invade my peaceful hours; 
Strike the last blow, O courteous fate, 
I`ll smiling fall like mowed flowers; 
I`ll gladly spurn this clogging clay, 
And, sweetly singing, soar away. 
What`s money but refined dust? 
What`s honours but an empty name? 
And what is soft enticing lust, 
But a consuming idle flame? 
Yea, what is all beneath the sky 
But emptiness and vanity? 
With thousand ills our life`s oppress`d, 
There`s nothing here worth living for 
In the lone grave I long to rest, 
And be harass`d here no more: 
Where joy`s fantastic, grief`s sincere, 
And where there`s nought for which I care. 
Thy word, O Lord, shall be my guide, 
Heaven, where thou dwellest is my goal; 
Through corrupt life grant I may glide 
With an untainted upward soul. 
Then may this life, this dreary night, 
Dispelled be by morning light.
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