Thus like the little busy bee,

That spends the day in gathering honey, Each has some active industry,

From which to draw his money.

There goes the richest man in town,
A prey to carking care;
His brow a mass of furrowed frown,
And sparse and grey his hair.
If backward to their hour of birth,
We trace the lineage of our great,
We find them sprung from that same earth,
In which the worms originate.

In other cities men pursue
Wealth for some given end,
And for a lifetime have a view,
Some object which shall tend
To fix on a succeeding age

Their memory when gone.
For this a constant war they wage,
For this endure the scorn
Of those who cannot understand
Their fixed and lofty bent,

And trust to time's all-healing hand,
Secure in good intent.

But here in silks and satins fine,
The ladies have their way;

In topmost rank resolved to shine,
If but a single day:

As summer lightning's flashes
Give out a brilliant spark,
Then pass to dust and ashes,
And vanish in the dark.
If sinking on life's slippery stones,
Some seek to rise in vain;
The lively music drowns their groans,
And starts the dance again.

"If this world be a fleeting show,
For man's delusion given,"

Where shall these joyous people go,
When the firmament is riven,

And the trumpet's final call,

Through the blue heaven shall peal,

And summon one and all,

To come and trembling kneel,

Before the Eternal throne,

Which the dread judge shall mount,

And naked, friendless, and alone,
Give of their lives account.