The Swan which boasted mid the tide, <br />Whose nest was guarded by the wave, <br />Floated for pleasure till she died, <br />And sunk beneath the flood to lave. <br /> <br />The bird of fashion drops her wing, <br />The rose-bush now declines to bloom; <br />The gentle breezes of the spring <br />No longer waft a sweet perfume. <br /> <br />Fair beauty with those lovely eyes, <br />Withers along her vital stream; <br />Proud fortune leaves her throne, and flies <br />From pleasure, as a flattering dream. <br /> <br />The eagle of exalted fame, <br />Which spreads his pinions far to sail, <br />Struggled to fan his dying flame, <br />Till pleasure pall'd in every gale. <br /> <br />And gaudy mammon, sordid gain, <br />Whose plume has faded, once so gay, <br />Languishes mid her flowery train, <br />Whilst pleasure flies like fumes away. <br /> <br />Vain pleasures, O how short to last! <br />Like leaves which quick to ashes burn; <br />Which kindle from the slightest blast, <br />And slight to nothing hence return.<br /><br />George Moses Horton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-swan-vain-pleasures/
