« FöregåendeFortsätt »
Before its splendid hour, the cloud
Comes o'er the beam of light;
A pilgrim in a weary land,
Man tarries but a night..
Behold! sad emblem of thy state,
The flowers that paint the field;
Or trees, that crown the mountain's brow,
And boughs and blossoms yield.
When chill the blast of Winter blows,
Away the Summer flies,
The flowers resign their sunny robes,
And all their beauty dies.
Nipt by the year, the forest fades;
And, shaking to the wind,
The leaves toss to and fro, and streak
The wilderness behind.
The Winter past, reviving flow'rs
Anew shall paint the plain;
The woods shall hear the voice of Spring,
And flourish green again :
But man departs this earthly scene,
Ah! never to return!
No second spring shall e'er revive
The ashes of the urn.
Th' inexorable doors of death
What hand can e'er unfold?
Who from the cerements of the tomb
Can raise the human mold?
The mighty flood that rolls along
Its torrents to the main,
The waters lost can ne'er recall
From that abyss again.
The days, the years, the ages, dark
Descending down to night,
Can never, never be redeem'd
Back to the gates of light.
So man departs the living scene,
To night's perpetual gloom;
The voice of mourning ne'er shall break
The slumbers of the tomb.
Where are our father's? whither gone
The mighty men of old?
'The patriarchs, prophets, princes, kings, "In sacred books enroll'd?
'Gone to the resting-place of man,
"The everlasting home,
Where ages past have gone before, 'Where future ages come.'
Thus nature pour'd the wail of woe,
And urged her earnest cry; Her voice in agony extreme Ascended to the sky.
Th' Almighty heard; then from his throne
And from the heaven, that open'd wide,
His voice in mercy flows.
When mortal man resigns his breath,
And falls a clod of clay,
The soul immortal wings its flight
To never-setting day.
Prepar'd of old, for wicked men,
The bed of torment lies;
The just shall enter into bliss 'Immortal in the skies.'
"My birthday!"-what a different sound
That word had in my youthful ears!
And how, each time the day comes round,
Less and less white its mark appears!
When first our scanty years are told,
It seems like pastime to grow old;
And, as Youth counts the shining links,
That Time around him binds so fast,
Pleas'd with the task, he little thinks
How hard that chain will press at last.
Vain was the man, and false as vain,
Who said *—" were he ordain'd to run "His long career of life again,
"He would do all that he had done.'
Ah! 'tis not thus the voice, that dwells
In sober birthdays, speaks to me;
Far otherwise-of time it tells,
Lavish'd unwisely, carelessly--
Of counsel mock'd—of talents, made
Haply for high and pure designs,
But oft, like Israel's incense, laid
Upon unholy, earthly shrines-
Of nursing many a wrong desire-
Of wandering after Love too far,
And taking every meteor fire,
That cross'd my path-way, for his star!
All this it tells, and, could I trace
Th' imperfect picture o'er again,
With power to add, retouch, efface,
The lights and shades, the joy and pain,
Fontenelle." Si je recommençais ma carriere, je ferai it ce que j'ai fait."
How little of the past would stay!
How quickly all should melt away-
All-but that Freedom of the Mind,
Which hath been more than wealth to me; Those friendships, in my boyhood twin'd, And kept till now unchangingly,
And that dear home, that saving ark,
Where Love's true light at last I've found, Cheering within, when all grows dark, And comfortless, and stormy round!
SEARCHING AFTER GOD.
My God, I love and I adore;
But souls that love, would know thee more.
Wilt thou for ever hide, and stand
Behind the labours of thy hand?
Thy hand unseen sustains the poles
On which this huge creation rolls:
The starry arch proclaims thy power,
Thy pencil glows in every flower:
In thousand shapes and colours rise
Thy painted wonders to our eyes;
While beasts and birds with lab'ring throats,
Teach us a God in thousand notes.
The meanest pin in Nature's frame,
Marks out some letter of thy name.
Where sense can reach, or fancy rove,
From hill to hill, from field to grove,
Across the waves, around the sky,
There's not a spot, or deep or high,
Where the Creator has not trod,
And left the footstep of a God.
But are his footsteps all that we,
Poor grov'lling worms, must know or see?
Thou Maker of my vital frame,
Unveil thy face, pronounce thy name,
Shine to my sight, and let the ear
Which thou hast form'd, thy language hear.
Where is thy residence? Oh, why
Dost thou avoid my searching eye,
My longing sense? Thou Great Unknown!
Say, do the clouds conceal thy throne?
Divide, ye clouds ! and let me see
The Power that gives me leave to be.
Or art thou all diffus'd abroad
Through boundless space, a present God,
Unseen, unheard, yet ever near?
What shall I do to find Thee here?
Is there not some mysterious art
To feel thy presence at my heart?
To hear thy whispers soft and kind,
In holy silence of the mind?
Then rest my thoughts; nor longer roam
In quest of joy, for heaven's at home.
But, oh! thy beams of warmest love!
Sure they were made for worlds above.
How shall my soul her powers extend,
Beyond where time and nature end,
To reach those heights, thy best abode,
And meet thy kindest smiles, my God?
What shall I do? I wait thy call;
Pronounce the word, my Life, my All.
O for a wing to bear me far
Beyond the golden morning-star!
Fain would I trace th' immortal way,
That leads to courts of endless day,
Where the Creator stands confess'd,
In his own fairest glories dress'd.
Some shining spirit help me rise,