Mid smiling friends and sports, far, far from sorrow,
Hanging around a mother's lap, we play
In the bright sunshine of our childhood's morrow,
Nor dream of any darker future day:
We smile on smiling hours that pass, and borrow
No gloom from all the mists that dim our way;
But rise and fall on every floating wave,
And with each image sweet communion have.
Each blessed sunbeam in that glorious time
Wakes us to never-palling jests and joys;
And transport—in those days, unstained by crime,
Flings all around her, roses—nor annoys
Our innocent paths with pains. Though not sublime,
Yet sweet as honey dew, the hours when boys
Dance on the emerald grave-heaps of the dead,
And upward, heavenward, all their footsteps tread.
And now the bud of lovely Hope is bursting,
And a new life its streams of passion pours;
And, like sweet, shadowed dreams, which fancy nurs'd in
Our parents' bosoms, all the household shores
Which seemed so bright and beautiful at first, in
Dimness are shaded. Yet the spirit soars
To something far above its narrow cell,
And seeks with brighter thoughts than earth's to dwell.
There is an impulse bidding us break through
Our prison's bounds : a world before us lies
Gladdened with glories fascinating, new,
And fragrant flow'rs and lovely fantasies:
So the soul waxes strong, and to pursue
Its noble destiny and high emprise
Will wrestle with all foes—all storms will meet,
Crushing all disappointments 'neath its feet.
The spirit feels its dignity of birth
And destination, in the mighty strife
It holds with all the storminess of earth:
It bends not to the yoke of mortal life,
But strives at something greater—feels a dearth
In worldly luxury—in aspirings rife
It mounts on mightier wings than time's—and flies
To heights which o'er heaven's highest torches rise.
It clads itself in purple like the morn's,
And walks in its imperial dignity—
Dives to the deepest seats of thought—adorns
The very dreamings which around us lie—
Wakes images of light and beauty—scorns
Th' infirmities of human destiny,
Pointing to hope's own pyramid sublime—
A watch-tower o'er the waves and storms of time.
First, youth's pure love develops the high source
Of intellect within him—gives it wings
Heavenward to urge its passion-prompted course.
While to his breast the lovely loved-one clings,
Into one maddening moment is the force
Of all existence flung—and angel-wings
Are borrowed for a time—while Hymen's breeze
Wafts two united spirits' harmonies.
And so sweet chains surround us till we die,
And when we die, we sleep—we toil, we rest:
The visions of life's morning-twilight fly—
Grief cools the life-blood boiling in our breast—
The buds are blown away—the fruit is nigh—
And man by time's strong urgency is press'd.
On, on to labor—duty must be heard;
She speaks in majesty the mighty word,
"Country!"—the invaders on her bosom tread:
Up to the field—he stands among the brave;
His cheeks with freedom's roseate glow are red,
And he is there to sink, or there to save.
Amidst the ghastly forms of death, no dread
Is his—indifferent if a hero's grave
Or garland wait him—if he dies, or lives,
Some brighter pledge he to the future gives.
Trembles? He trembles as the granite trembles,
Lashed by the waves; for the courageous heart
Bastions of brass around its shrines assembles,
Which snap or spurn away the sharpest dart.
Duty becomes delight, toil joy resembles,
And health and bliss are labor's better part;
While love for lovely women—and for friend
Friendship—and tenderness for children-blend,
Blend in a beauteous light. Creation's power
Flings radiance on the soul, and leads it on,
Firm as a column, through its mortal hour,
Stretching for higher recompense. Anon
Both heaven and earth their benedictions shower
On that which is their kindred, and hath won
Their own reflection—while its torch will light
Through the world's darkness and its own dark night.
So speed we—so we sink—so disappear—
So fades our little lamp—and so we fade.
Winter will scatter snow-storms on our bier,
And midnight mantle darkness round our head—
And graves will yawn—and death, with frown austere,
Fill up our hearts with ashes of the dead—
And joy will be a grief—and lust will pall—
And all be tasteless, hopeless—heartless all.
And all life's painted shadows disappear,
While solitude puts out her frozen hand
To lead us, hapless, to that unknown sphere
Which ignorance has called the promised land,
And blindness, peace. Cold mistiness is there,
Clouding around that superhuman band
Which shines like moonlight rays upon the waves,
And rears green altars over mouldering graves.
It may be—nay! it is—a sleep as sweet
As ever infant slept. 'Tis more: to hope
Is nothing—confidence and faith are meet
For mortals: there is an eternal scope
For immortality. When death we greet,
We greet a resurrection—and we ope
Heaven's mansions, making room for other mortals
As death wafts our poor ashes through life's portals.