Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own; The homely nurse doth all she can And that imperial palace whence he came. Behold the Child among his new-born blisses, See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies, A mourning or a funeral; And this hath now his heart, To dialogues of business, love, or strife; Ere this be thrown aside, And with new joy and pride, The little actor cons another part, Filling from time to time his humorous stage' Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep, Haunted for ever by the eternal mind,— Mighty Prophet! Seer blest! On whom those truths do rest, Which we are toiling all our lives to find : Is but a lonely bed without the sense or sight A place of thought where we in waiting lie; Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife? O joy! that in our embers The thought of our past years in me doth breed For that which is most worthy to be blest; Of Childhood, whether fluttering or at rest, The song of thanks and praise; But for those obstinate questionings Fallings from us, vanishings; Blank misgivings of a creature High instincts, before which our mortal nature Which, be they what they may, Are yet the fountain light of all our day, Our noisy years seem moments in the being Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour, Nor all that is at enmity with joy, Can utterly abolish or destroy! Hence, in a season of calm weather, Our souls have sight of that immortal sea Can in a moment travel thither, And see the children sport upon the shore, Then, sing ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous song As to the tabor's sound! We in thought will join your throng, Ye that through your hearts to-day ! What though the radiance which was once so bright Be now for ever taken from my sight, Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower; We will grieve not, rather find Which having been must ever be, In the faith that looks through death, In years that bring the philosophic mind. And oh ye fountains, meadows, hills, and groves, To live beneath your more habitual sway. I love the brooks which down their channels fret, The clouds that gather round the setting sun, That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality; LIFE'S May-day may be jocund, and its eve All hope the goal of happiness is won, Experience soon dissolves this dreaming charm, Which ardent fancies work that least have known alarm. Observe the strange vicissitudes of time! Of good or ill, of moral or of crime; And though the Power that governs all may spare Some few light bosoms from the stings of care, Small is the lot thus portioned; wretchedness Treads in our path, and meets us every where : Want pines in mournful silence, while distress Proclaims herself twin-born with human happiness. Do riches purchase bliss, or fame content? The dews of Charity; where never thrilled One keen emotion of requiting love. Peace dwells not in the coffer richly filled, Nor in the breast of fame secures her dove. She holds no league with man-her empire is above. And what are titles, honours, or the gauds While glowing hot within the torch of discord burns. |