Ah! little thought Gambado, in his day,As on he passed through life's uneven way,How many toils and troubles he would scan,Before he reached the common age of man!Yet on he went; and as his years declined,And quietude and peace becalmed his mind,He felt and owned, no greater bliss could beThan resignation for Eternity."Ah!" he would say, "behold, dear wife, yon sea,Each wave seems striving for celebrity!It rolls along until it reach the shore,Then bursts in froth,—and then is seen no more!Still, on and on succeeding waves advance,And thus perpetual motion would enhance.'Tis so with mortals striving on and on,They reach the shore,—and all their toil is gone.How oft yon waves, by angry tempests tost,Like human passions, are in fury lost;Dash'd on the rocks, their crested pride, in foamSprays into atoms ere it finds a home."So mighty strugglers after this world's fame,Find all their fury perish with their name.'Tis seldom known that speculators thrive,Or long their great inventions may outlive.Others come on,—no end of new things known,One age will praise,—the next, the praise disown.Feathers you wear,—but feathers blown away,Will be succeeded by some new display.We ride on horseback, and survey the tide,—The age will come, that horses none will ride;The age will be that coaches will no moreBe seen with horses, two, or three, or four;But on will pass, and leave no other trace,Than iron's friction from a rapid pace.What would Gambado think, if he could seeHis own predictions made a verity?Who can predict one single year's advance?Truth is so strange it seems a day's romance.Things that last year were mighty,—are all gone;Works of great hope,—are perished and undone.Iron is moulded by the human hand;And wooden walls no more the seas command.All would be great, be rich, and all invent,But few there are, who are at all content.With lightning speed intelligence conveyedFrom land to land, the iron rails are laid,—And 'neath the ocean's deep united cords,Convey the merchant's or the prince's words.But mostly all, by sea, or land, or train,Is that the traffickers may get their gain.The greatest gain, that ever man could get,Is sweet contentment after every fret.When projects are completed, all is vain,For other projects follow in their train;Old age comes on,—all projects quickly cease,—Happy are they who live and die in peace.Gambado did so: Reader, may thy fameRest with content on One Blest, Holy Name!
Ah! little thought Gambado, in his day,As on he passed through life's uneven way,How many toils and troubles he would scan,Before he reached the common age of man!Yet on he went; and as his years declined,And quietude and peace becalmed his mind,He felt and owned, no greater bliss could beThan resignation for Eternity."Ah!" he would say, "behold, dear wife, yon sea,Each wave seems striving for celebrity!It rolls along until it reach the shore,Then bursts in froth,—and then is seen no more!Still, on and on succeeding waves advance,And thus perpetual motion would enhance.'Tis so with mortals striving on and on,They reach the shore,—and all their toil is gone.How oft yon waves, by angry tempests tost,Like human passions, are in fury lost;Dash'd on the rocks, their crested pride, in foamSprays into atoms ere it finds a home."
So mighty strugglers after this world's fame,Find all their fury perish with their name.'Tis seldom known that speculators thrive,Or long their great inventions may outlive.Others come on,—no end of new things known,One age will praise,—the next, the praise disown.Feathers you wear,—but feathers blown away,Will be succeeded by some new display.We ride on horseback, and survey the tide,—The age will come, that horses none will ride;The age will be that coaches will no moreBe seen with horses, two, or three, or four;But on will pass, and leave no other trace,Than iron's friction from a rapid pace.
What would Gambado think, if he could seeHis own predictions made a verity?Who can predict one single year's advance?Truth is so strange it seems a day's romance.Things that last year were mighty,—are all gone;Works of great hope,—are perished and undone.Iron is moulded by the human hand;And wooden walls no more the seas command.All would be great, be rich, and all invent,But few there are, who are at all content.With lightning speed intelligence conveyedFrom land to land, the iron rails are laid,—And 'neath the ocean's deep united cords,Convey the merchant's or the prince's words.But mostly all, by sea, or land, or train,Is that the traffickers may get their gain.
The greatest gain, that ever man could get,Is sweet contentment after every fret.When projects are completed, all is vain,For other projects follow in their train;Old age comes on,—all projects quickly cease,—Happy are they who live and die in peace.Gambado did so: Reader, may thy fameRest with content on One Blest, Holy Name!
THE END.
Honi soit qui mal y pense
Transcriber's Notes: The original publication did not contain a table of contents. This has been provided for the reader's convenience. There were a few printer's errors which have been corrected. For example, Chapter XIII was entitled "A Daisey Cutter, with his Varieties" whereas the name was spelt Daisy in the text.