To Geeraert Vossius, on the Loss of His Son

Why mourn'st thou, Vossius! why has pain
Its furrows to thy pale brow given?
Seek not to hold thy son from heaven!
'Tis heaven that draws — resign him then.

Yes! banish every futile tear,
And offer to its Source above,
In gratitude and humble love,
The choicest of thy treasures here.

We murmur if the bark should strand;
But not when, richly laden, she
Comes from the wild and raging sea,
Within a haven safe to land.

We murmur if the balm be shed;
Yes! murmur for the odour's sake:
But not whene'er the glass may break,
If that which fill'd it be not fled.

He strives in vain who seeks to stay
The bounding waters in their course,
When hurl'd from rocks with giant force,
Towards some calm and spacious bay.

Thus turns the earthly globe; — though o'er
His infant's corse a father mourn,
Or child bedew its parents' urn, —
Death passes neither house nor door.

Death, nor for gay and blooming youth
Nor peevish age, his stroke defers;
He chains the lips of orators,
Nor cares for wisdom, worth, or truth.

Blest is the mind that, fix'd and free,
To wanton pleasures scorns to yield,
And wards, as with a pliant shield,
The arrows of adversity.