It was his last birthday and, forgotten and alone, the brilliant and handsome Byron took up his pen and in bitter disappointment wrote:
"My days are in the yellow leaf,
The flowers and fruits of life are gone,
The worm, the canker, and the grief
Are mine alone."
He had followed the bubble of fame, but it had burst in his grasp. He had reached the zenith of popularity, and had been flattered by royalty, but he died forsaken and unattended upon a foreign shore. He had drunk deeply of the sparkling drafts of this world's pleasure and lust, but the intoxicating cup had been rudely dashed from his hand and the bitter dregs alone were left him. One present when he died wrote: "No gleam of joy, of peace, or hope rose upon that melancholy scene; no prayer for forgiveness ascended. The Divine Redeemer was but once mentioned by the dying poet, and that only a painful exclamation."
A sad story. Yes, but a true sample of the way in which the world treats those who have served it most and loved it best. Fleeting and empty are its best pleasures. "Vanity" is written across its most cherished treasures.
Let your thoughts travel on ahead of you think of your dying day. Will the night of eternal darkness be before you? Or will the light of God's wondrous day fill your soul with radiance in that supreme moment?
Look ahead! Think of the time when you shall have ceased to sing and laugh, when someone else will sit in your place. Look into eternity, and let me ask you two questions:
"What shall it profit 'a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?"
What answer can you give?