Frail as the leaf in Autumn's yellow bower,
Dust in the wind, or dew upon the flower!
A friendless slave, a child without a sire,
Whose mortal life, and momentary fire,
Lights to the grave his chance-created form
As ocean-wrecks illuminate the storm;
And when the gun's tremendous flash is o'er,
To Night and Silence sink for ever more!
Are these the pompous tidings ye proclaim,
Lights of the world, and demi-gods of Fame?
Is this your triumph- this your proud applause,
Children of Truth, and champions of her cause?
For this hath Science searched, on weary wing,
By shore and sea- each mute and living thing?
Launched with Iberia's pilot from the steep,
To worlds unknown, and isles beyond the deep?
Or round the cope her living chariot driven,
And wheeled in triumph through the signs of Heaven?
Oh! star-eyed Science, hast thou wandered there,
To waft us home the message of despair?
Then bind the palm, thy sage's brow to suit,
Of blasted leaf, and death-distilling fruit!
Ah me! the laurelled wreath that murder rears,
Blood-nursed, and watered by the widow's tears,
Seems not so foul, so tainted, and so dread,
As waves the night-shade round the skeptic head.
What is the bigot's torch, the tyrant's chain?
I smile on death, if Heav'n-ward Hope remain!
But, if the warring winds of Nature's strife
Be all the faithless charter of my life,
If Chance awaked, inexorable power!
This frail and feverish being of an hour,
Doomed o'er the world's precarious scene to sweep,
Swift as the tempest travels on the deep,
To know Delight but by her parting smile,
And toil, and wish, and weep, a little while;
Then melt, ye elements, that formed in vain
This troubled pulse, and visionary brain!
Fade, ye wild flowers, memorials of my doom!
And sink, ye stars, that light me to the tomb!
Cease every joy to glimmer on my mind,
But leave oh! leave the light of Hope behind! What though my wingéd hours of bliss have been, Like angel-visits, few, and far between!
Her musing mood shall every pang appease,
When, 'reft of all, yon widowed sire appears
A lonely hermit in the vale of years;
Say, can the world one joyous thought bestow
To Friendship, weeping at the couch of Wo?
No! but a brighter soothes the last adieu,—
Souls of impassioned mould, she speaks to you!
Weep not, she says, at Nature's transient pain,
Congenial spirits part to meet again ! — . . .
Cold in the dust this perished heart may lie,
But that which warmed it once shall never die !
That spark unburied in its mortal frame,
With living light, eternal, and the same,
Shall beam on Joy's interminable years,
Unveiled by darkness — unassuaged by tears! ..
Inspiring thought of rapture yet to be,
The tears of love were hopeless, but for thee!
If in that frame no deathless spirit dwell,
If that faint murmur be the last farewell!
If fate unite the faithful but to part,
Why is their memory sacred to the heart?
Why does the brother of my childhood seem
Restored awhile in every pleasing dream?
Why do I joy the lonely spot to view,
By artless friendship blessed when life was new?
Eternal Hope! when yonder spheres sublime
Pealed their first notes to sound the march of Time,
When all the sister planets have decayed;
When wrapt in fire the realms of ether glow,
And Heaven's last thunder shakes the world below; Thou, undismayed shalt o'er the ruins smile,
And light thy torch at Nature's funeral pile!
ODE DELIVERED AT THE CONSECRATION OF THE CEMETERY OF MOUNT HOPE, NEAR BOSTON.
Nor in this green retreat
However beautiful, while Summer launches.
Her odors and soft airs through swaying branches;
Though wild flowers court our feet,
And though the wild birds capture
The listening sense with their melodious rapture,·
Not here, not here, my friends,
Let us believe the loved one shall repose,
Or that life's true receptacle descends
To the dark mould, where sods above it close,
And the immortal with the mortal blends!
Let not despair or sensual distrust
Confound this mouldering dust
With the true person with the inner form,
Which gave the outward all it had of fair; Which is no kindred of the worm,
No warrant for despair!
Not here, my soul, not for one moment here,
Sinks the pure life-spring of one generous tear;
Of one heaven-aimed affection,
One tender recollection,
One deed of goodness in seclusion wrought,
One lesson, or one thought!
As water rises to its fountain-head,
However low you lay its transient bed,
So must the spirit, from its earthward course,
Mount to the Deity, which is its source!
We give the infant, who to walk is learning,
His leading strings; corks to the doubtful swim-
So are these bodies, for our brief sojourning,
Helps to us here, while schooled in being's primer. For here, in God's stupendous seminary,
What various lore the thoughtful eye engages!
Morning and night the seasons as they vary,-
Spread for our use illuminated pages.
If all were ours unearned, what need of action?
If God no problem set for our unfolding,
Where were the joy, the power, the benefaction
Of toil, and faith, and prayer, our spirits moulding? Where were the innocence, without temptation? Where, without freedom, were the self-denial?
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