Classic Poem

So does the sun withdraw his beames,
From off the Northern coasts and streames;
When Clouds and Frosts ensue,
And leaves the melancholy Slaves
Stupid and dull as near their Graves,
Till he their joys renew.
Those that in Greenland followed Game
Too long, and found when back they came,
Their Shipping gone, believed they must die
Ere Succour came; but yet more blest than I.

How soon our happiness does fly,
Like Sounds, which with their Ecchoes dye,
And leave us in a Trance,
Bewailing we had e'er enjoy'd
The blessing, since 'tis still destroyed,
By some unhappy chance.
Why should the spiteful stars agree,
To vex and mock mortality?
For thus, like Traytors which in darkness lie,
W'are only brought into the light to die.

In dreams things are not as they seem.
Else, what's fruition but a dream
When the possession's past?
Alas: to say we were, we had,
Is poor content, and e'en as bad
As if w' had ne'er had taste.
Fire in great Frosts, small time possest,
Produces pain instead of rest:
So does the short enjoyment of such bliss,
And till restored, continual torment is.