Classic Poem

Here then I tread the Ground again,
Where, in my youthful days,
I saw a row of Swains to stand:
They did my person Praise.

I do remember, quite abash'd,
I then did hang my Head;
My Sister too their Praises shar'd:
But Oh, alas! she's dead!

What is the finest form on Earth,
For Worms to feed upon!
How sickly is the praise of Man,
How soon is Beauty gone!

When Young, I liken it to smoke,
Which does offensive seem;
And when old Age is creeping on,
It's like unto a Dream.

Smoke is offensive to the Nose,
And hurtful to the Eyes;
So Praise does hurt the Maid that's vain,
And oft offends the Wise.

But now with boldness I look'd up,
And did with pleasure see,
Each rural Swain, or Christian Man
That seem'd to notice me.

Religion now is all their theme,
And Christ they did admire:
Religion too, be thou my theme,
And Christ my chief desire!