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, In other cities men pursue Their memory when gone. Of those who cannot understand And trust to time's all-healing hand, But here in silks and satins fine, The ladies have their way; In topmost rank resolved to shine, As summer lightning's flashes If sinking on life's slippery stones, The lively music drowns their groans, "If this world be a fleeting show, For man's delusion given," Where shall these joyous people go, 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. |