The speaker traces a whole human life, moving from the bright, eager beginnings of youth straight through to the heavy, resigned close of old age. At the start, everything feels sunlit and full of promise — the world looks welcoming, fate seems crammed with greatness, and even sorrows are gentle, passing things like spring breezes or April showers. Love and joy come easily. But that first sweetness doesn’t last. Almost without noticing, we climb the “Hill of Time” and look back, realizing the prime is gone. The tone darkens: earlier mistakes turn into thorny crops of regret, every care beats us down, and smiles lose their power to comfort. Tears become winter storms. The mood moves from buoyant confidence through creeping disillusionment to a kind of exhausted relief. By the end, the speaker is “rumpled” by age, glad to sink into rest and leave the striving crowds behind — a quiet, somber acceptance of life’s inevitable curve.
Life's Progress — Summary
How gayly 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 Surprize, 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 do's that early Season move; As Flow'rs 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 ev'ry Care's a driving Harm, That helps to bear us down; Which faded Smiles no more can charm, But ev'ry Tear's a Winter-Storm, And ev'ry Look's a Frown.
Till with succeeding Ills opprest, For Joys we hop'd to find; By Age too, rumpl'd and undrest, We gladly sinking down to rest, Leave following Crouds behind.