Life is a book, 'tis said, on whose blank pages
A record fair or full of blots we trace;
Each thought, each word, each act, to last thro' ages,
Is stamped in characters none can efface.
How are we writing? how this record keeping?
Each page shows gain or loss on that before.
If gain be ours we have no cause for weeping,
Joy reigns; but loss brings sorrow evermore.