Anne Finch, Countess of Winchilsea (1661–1720)

HOW gaily is at first begun

Our Life’s uncertain race:

Whilst yet that sprightly morning sun,

With which we just set out to run

Enlightens all the place.

How smiling the world’s prospect lies

How tempting to go through;

Not Canaan to the prophet’s eyes,

From Pisgah with a sweet surprise,

Did more inviting shew.

How promising’s the Book of Fate,

Till thoroughly understood;

Whilst partial hopes such lots create,

As may the youthful fancy treat

With all that’s great and good.

How soft the first Ideas prove,

Which wander through our minds;

How full the joys, how free the love,

Which does that early season move;

As flowers the western winds.

Our sighs are then but vernal air;

But April-drops our tears,

Which swiftly passing, all grows fair,

Whilst Beauty compensates our care,

And youth each vapour clears.

But oh! too soon, alas, we climb;

Scarce feeling we ascend

The gently rising Hill of Time,

From whence with grief we see that prime,

And all its sweetness end.

The die now cast, our station known,

Fond expectation past;

The thorns, which former days had sown,

To crops of late repentance grown,

Thro’ which we toil at last.

Whilst every care’s a driving harm,

That helps to bear us down;

Which faded smiles no more can charm,

But every tear’s a winter storm,

And every look’s a frown.

Till with succeeding ills opprest,

For joys we hoped to find;

By age too, rumpled and undrest,

We gladly sinking down to rest,

Leave following crowds behind.