All Is Vanity

I've compass'd every pleasure,
Caught every joy before its bead could pass;
I 've loved without restriction, without measure —
I 've sipp'd enjoyment from each sparkling glass —

I've known what 'tis, too, to "repent at leisure" —
I 've sat at meeting, and I 've served at mass: —
And having roved through half the world's insanities,
Cry, with the Preacher — Vanity of vanities!

What constitutes man's chief enjoyment here?
What forms his greatest antidote to sorrow?
Is 't wealth? Wealth can at last but gild his bier,
Or buy the pall that poverty must borrow.

Is 't love? Alas, love 's cradled in a tear;
It smiles to-day, and weeps again to-morrow;
Mere child of passion, that beguiles in youth,
And flies from age, as falsehood flies from truth.

Is 't glory? Pause beneath St. Helen's willow,
Whose weeping branches wave above the spot;
Ask him, whose head now rests upon its pillow,
Its last, low pillow, there to rest, and rot.

Is't fame! Ask her, who floats upon the billow,
Untomb'd, uncoffin'd, and perchance "forgot;
The lovely, lovesick Lesbian, frail as fair,
Victim of love, and emblem of despair.

Is 't honour'? Go, ask him whose ashes sleep
Within the crypt of Paul's stupendous dome,
Whose name once thunder'd victory o'er the deep,
Far as his country's navies proudly roam;

Above whose grave no patriot Dane shall weep,
No Frank deplore the hour he found a home —
A home, whence valour's voice from conquest's car
No more shall rouse the lord — of-Trafalgar.