A Few Short Years From Now

Say, art thou angry? words unkind
  Have fallen upon thine ear,
Thy spirit hath been wounded too
  By mocking jest or sneer,
But mind it not—relax at once
  Thine o’ercast and troubled brow—
What will be taunt or jest to thee
  In a few short years from now?

Or, perhaps thou mayst be pining
  Beneath some bitter grief,
From whose pangs in vain thou seekest
  Or respite or relief;
Fret not ’neath Heav’n’s chastening rod
  But submissive to it bow;
Thy griefs will all be hushed to rest
  In a few short years from now.

Art toiling for some worldly aim,
  Or for some golden prize,
Devoting to that glitt’ring goal
  Thy thoughts, thy smiles, thy sighs?
Ah! rest thee from the idle chase,
  With no bliss can it endow;
Of fame or gold, what will be thine
  In a few short years from now?

It may be pleasure’s roseate dreams
  Possess thy wayward heart,
Its gilded gauds for better things
  Leaving alas! no part;
Ah! cast away the gems and flowers
  That bind thy thoughtless brow,
Where will their gleam or brightness be
  In a few short years from now?

The good thou may’st on earth have done,
  Love to a brother shown—
Pardon to foe—alms unto need—
  Kind word or gentle tone;
The treasures thus laid up in Heav’n
  By the good on earth done now,
These will alone remain to thee,
  In a few short years from now.