1My soul, why art thou full of trouble
2And overwhelmed with grief?
3Dost thou not know this world’s a bubble
4And cannot yield relief?
5This life’s a dream of mirth or sorrow
6Envelopéd in night;
7The Resurrection’s
like the morrow, 8As full of life as light.
9Then slight these terrene
hopes, as toys
; 10Think thou of better things.
11From all her
pleasures and her joys, 12Nought but repentance springs.
13Thy mortal nature ne’er deplore,
14Let Death work all her spite;
15For thou shalt live, when Death’s no more,
17What, though thou into ashes turn,
18Thy dust will find a tomb
19Within some safe and silent urn
20In black Oblivion’s womb.
21Whether thou water dost increase,
22Or fire, or air, or earth
; 23Yet am I sure to rest in peace;
24My soul assumes
her birth. 25And if Pythagoras
saw clear, 26Of this thou mayest resolve:
27Some lamb, or dove, then to appear,
28No toad shall thee involve
. 29Then whether dissolution
, 30Or transmigration,
31Or rolling revolution,
32All ends in thy salvation.
33Nothing shall then afflict my soul
34That passeth here below;
35For I above the highest pole
36Or star ere
long shall go. 37Forget I shall, then, my sad story
; 38And all my past annoys
39Shall swallowed be of
infinite glory 40And crowned
with endless joys.