Can all the pomp and vain parade
Of wealth and mightiness avail,
To chase the horrors that invade,
Of Death, this dark and dreary vale?
The wrinkled brow can tell a tale;
The quivering lip—the hectic cheek—
Would say, the heart within that breast
Had little rapture, little rest,
If they could only speak.

Are there not fears of outward foes,
And cares for gold and treasure gained?
Knows not the heart a thousand woes,
From pleasure’s sweetest goblet drained?
Has not the eye with anguish strained
To catch beyond the present scene,
(Albeit a wilderness of flowers)
A fairer one for future hours
Than ever yet hath been?

And there are whispers to the heart,
That wealth and bliss may flee;
That all this brightness may depart,
Poor, gilded worm! from thee:
And oh! the thought that this may be,
Or, said alternative, that thou
Must leave thy all to others, clings
To thy gay vessel’s silken wings,
And darkness o’er its prow.

And thou art like a gallant ship,
With streamers bright and pennons gay,
Forth from the cheering port did slip,
Upon a laughing summer’s day.
The scene is changed—and far away
That gilded vessel, rich and fair,
By winds and waves is wildly tossed—
What recks it when the helm is lost,
Beauty and wealth are there?

There goes a laborer to his toil,
And oh! how merrily he sings—
Knows not that man the conqueror’s spoil—
Knows not the smiles that honor brings—
Wealth’s golden ’larum never rings
Its summons in his startled ear;
Yet is he blest, and o’er his head
Doth peace her hallowed olives shed,
To banish care and fear.

Has he no fears for future ill?
No yearnings for forbidden joy?
Vacuity he cannot fill?
Nor dull satiety to cloy?
Are his delights without alloy?
Show me the road that man hath trod:
Whence may such quiet rapture fall?
He sought his wealth—his peace—his all,
And found them—in his God.

Thomas Rawson Taylor
Memoirs and Select Remains, 1836