O why should the spirit of mortal be proud?Like a swift-fleeting meteor, a fast-flying cloud,A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave,Man passes from life to his rest in the grave.The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade,Be scattered around and together be laid;And the young and the old, and the low and the high,Shall moulder to dust and together shall lie.The infant a mother attended and loved,The mother that infant's affection who proved,The husband that mother and infant who blessed,Each, all, are away to their dwellings of rest.The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye,Shone beauty and pleasure,—her triumphs are by;And the memory of those who have loved her and praised,Are alike from the minds of the living erased.The hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne,The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn,The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave,Are hidden and lost in the depth of the grave.The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap,The herdsman who climbed with his goats up the steep,The beggar who wandered in search of his bread,Have faded away like the grass that we tread.The saint who enjoyed the communion of heaven,The sinner who dared to remain unforgiven,The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just,Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust.So the multitude goes, like the flower or the weedThat withers away to let others succeed;So the multitude comes, even those we behold,To repeat every tale that has often been told.For we are the same that our fathers have been;We see the same sights that our fathers have seen,—We drink the same stream, and we view the same sun,And run the same course that our fathers have run.The thoughts we are thinking our fathers would think;From the death that we shrink from our fathers would shrink;To the life that we cling to they also would cling;But it speeds for us all, like a bird on the wing.They loved, but the story we cannot unfold;They scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold;They grieved, but no wail from their slumbers will come;They joyed, but the tongue of their gladness is dumb.They died, ay! they died: and we things that are now,Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow,Who make in their dwelling a transient abode,Meet the things that they met on their pilgrimage road.Yea! hope and despondency, pleasure and pain,We mingle together in sunshine and rain;And the smiles and the tears, the song and the dirge,Still follow each other, like surge upon surge.'Tis the wink of an eye, 'tis the draught of a breath,From the blossom of health to the paleness of death,From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud,—O, why should the spirit of mortal be proud?William Knox.
O why should the spirit of mortal be proud?Like a swift-fleeting meteor, a fast-flying cloud,A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave,Man passes from life to his rest in the grave.
The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade,Be scattered around and together be laid;And the young and the old, and the low and the high,Shall moulder to dust and together shall lie.
The infant a mother attended and loved,The mother that infant's affection who proved,The husband that mother and infant who blessed,Each, all, are away to their dwellings of rest.
The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye,Shone beauty and pleasure,—her triumphs are by;And the memory of those who have loved her and praised,Are alike from the minds of the living erased.
The hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne,The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn,The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave,Are hidden and lost in the depth of the grave.
The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap,The herdsman who climbed with his goats up the steep,The beggar who wandered in search of his bread,Have faded away like the grass that we tread.
The saint who enjoyed the communion of heaven,The sinner who dared to remain unforgiven,The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just,Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust.
So the multitude goes, like the flower or the weedThat withers away to let others succeed;So the multitude comes, even those we behold,To repeat every tale that has often been told.
For we are the same that our fathers have been;We see the same sights that our fathers have seen,—We drink the same stream, and we view the same sun,And run the same course that our fathers have run.
The thoughts we are thinking our fathers would think;From the death that we shrink from our fathers would shrink;To the life that we cling to they also would cling;But it speeds for us all, like a bird on the wing.
They loved, but the story we cannot unfold;They scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold;They grieved, but no wail from their slumbers will come;They joyed, but the tongue of their gladness is dumb.
They died, ay! they died: and we things that are now,Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow,Who make in their dwelling a transient abode,Meet the things that they met on their pilgrimage road.
Yea! hope and despondency, pleasure and pain,We mingle together in sunshine and rain;And the smiles and the tears, the song and the dirge,Still follow each other, like surge upon surge.
'Tis the wink of an eye, 'tis the draught of a breath,From the blossom of health to the paleness of death,From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud,—O, why should the spirit of mortal be proud?
William Knox.
When Liberty lives loud on every lip,But Freedom moans,Trampled by nations whose faint footfalls slipRound bloody thrones;When, here and there, in dungeon and in thrall,Or exile pale,Like torches dying at a funeral,Brave natures fail;When Truth, the armed archangel, stretches wideGod's tromp in vain,And the world, drowsing, turns upon its sideTo drowse again;—O Man, whose course hath called itself sublimeSince it began,What art thou in such dying age of time,As man to man?When Love's last wrong hath been forgotten coldly,As First Love's face;And, like a rat that comes to wanton boldlyIn some lone place,Once festal, in the realm of light and laughterGrim Doubt appears,Whilst weird suggestions from Death's vague Hereafter,O'er ruined years,Creep, dark and darker, with new dread to mutterThrough life's long shade,Yet make no more in the chill breast the flutterWhich once they made:Whether it be, that all doth at the graveRound to its term,That nothing lives in that last darkness, saveThe little worm,Or whether the tired spirit prolong its courseThrough realms unseen,—Secure, that unknown world cannot be worseThan this hath been:Then when thro' Thought's gold chain, so frail and slender,No link will meet;When all the broken harps of Language renderNo sound that's sweet;When, like torn books, sad days weigh down each otherI' the dusty shelf;—O Man, what art thou, O my friend, my brother,Even to thyself?Robert Bulwer Lytton.
When Liberty lives loud on every lip,But Freedom moans,Trampled by nations whose faint footfalls slipRound bloody thrones;When, here and there, in dungeon and in thrall,Or exile pale,Like torches dying at a funeral,Brave natures fail;When Truth, the armed archangel, stretches wideGod's tromp in vain,And the world, drowsing, turns upon its sideTo drowse again;—O Man, whose course hath called itself sublimeSince it began,What art thou in such dying age of time,As man to man?
When Love's last wrong hath been forgotten coldly,As First Love's face;And, like a rat that comes to wanton boldlyIn some lone place,Once festal, in the realm of light and laughterGrim Doubt appears,Whilst weird suggestions from Death's vague Hereafter,O'er ruined years,Creep, dark and darker, with new dread to mutterThrough life's long shade,Yet make no more in the chill breast the flutterWhich once they made:Whether it be, that all doth at the graveRound to its term,That nothing lives in that last darkness, saveThe little worm,Or whether the tired spirit prolong its courseThrough realms unseen,—Secure, that unknown world cannot be worseThan this hath been:Then when thro' Thought's gold chain, so frail and slender,No link will meet;When all the broken harps of Language renderNo sound that's sweet;When, like torn books, sad days weigh down each otherI' the dusty shelf;—O Man, what art thou, O my friend, my brother,Even to thyself?
Robert Bulwer Lytton.
My mother bore me in the southern wild,And I am black; but, O, my soul is white!White as an angel is the English child,But I am black as if bereaved of light.My mother taught me underneath a tree;And, sitting down before the heat of day,She took me on her lap, and kisséd me,And, pointing to the east, began to say:—"Look on the rising sun; there God does live,And gives his light, and gives his heat away;And flowers and trees, and beasts and men, receiveComfort in morning, joy in the noonday."And we are put on earth a little space,That we may learn to bear the beams of love,And these black bodies and this sunburnt faceAre but a cloud, and like a shady grove."For when our souls have learned the heat to bear,The clouds will vanish; we shall hear his voice,Saving: 'Come from the grove, my love and care,And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice.'"Thus did my mother say and kisséd me,And thus I say to little English boy;When I from black, and he from white cloud free,And round the tent of God like lambs we joy,I'll shade him from the heat, till he can bearTo lean in joy upon our Father's knee;And then I'll stand and stroke his silver hair,And be like him, and he will then love me.William Blake.
My mother bore me in the southern wild,And I am black; but, O, my soul is white!White as an angel is the English child,But I am black as if bereaved of light.
My mother taught me underneath a tree;And, sitting down before the heat of day,She took me on her lap, and kisséd me,And, pointing to the east, began to say:—
"Look on the rising sun; there God does live,And gives his light, and gives his heat away;And flowers and trees, and beasts and men, receiveComfort in morning, joy in the noonday.
"And we are put on earth a little space,That we may learn to bear the beams of love,And these black bodies and this sunburnt faceAre but a cloud, and like a shady grove.
"For when our souls have learned the heat to bear,The clouds will vanish; we shall hear his voice,Saving: 'Come from the grove, my love and care,And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice.'"
Thus did my mother say and kisséd me,And thus I say to little English boy;When I from black, and he from white cloud free,And round the tent of God like lambs we joy,
I'll shade him from the heat, till he can bearTo lean in joy upon our Father's knee;And then I'll stand and stroke his silver hair,And be like him, and he will then love me.
William Blake.
The glories of our birth and stateAre shadows, not substantial things;There is no armor against fate,—Death lays his icy hands on kings;Sceptre and crownMust tumble down,And in the dust be equal madeWith the poor crooked scythe and spade.Some men with swords may reap the field,And plant fresh laurels where they kill;But their strong nerves at last must yield,—They tame but one another still;Early or lateThey stoop to fate,And must give up their murmuring breath,When they, pale captives, creep to death.The garlands wither on your brow,—Then boast no more your mighty deeds;Upon death's purple altar, now,See where the victor victim bleeds!All heads must comeTo the cold tomb,—Only the actions of the justSmell sweet, and blossom in the dust.James Shirley.
The glories of our birth and stateAre shadows, not substantial things;There is no armor against fate,—Death lays his icy hands on kings;Sceptre and crownMust tumble down,And in the dust be equal madeWith the poor crooked scythe and spade.
Some men with swords may reap the field,And plant fresh laurels where they kill;But their strong nerves at last must yield,—They tame but one another still;Early or lateThey stoop to fate,And must give up their murmuring breath,When they, pale captives, creep to death.
The garlands wither on your brow,—Then boast no more your mighty deeds;Upon death's purple altar, now,See where the victor victim bleeds!All heads must comeTo the cold tomb,—Only the actions of the justSmell sweet, and blossom in the dust.
James Shirley.
Slave of the dark and dirty mine,What vanity has brought thee here?How can I love to see thee shineSo bright, whom I have bought so dear?The tent-ropes flapping lone I hearFor twilight converse, arm in arm;The jackal's shriek bursts on mine earWhen mirth and music wont to charm.By Cherical's dark wandering streams,Where cane-tufts shadow all the wild,Sweet visions haunt my waking dreamsOf Teviot loved while still a child,Of castled rocks stupendous piledBy Esk or Eden's classic wave,Where loves of youth and friendship smiled,Uncursed by thee, vile yellow slave!Fade, day-dreams sweet, from memory fade!The perished bliss of youth's first prime,That once so bright on fancy played,Revives no more in after-time.Far from my sacred natal clime,I haste to an untimely grave;The daring thoughts that soared sublimeAre sunk in ocean's southern wave.Slave of the mine, thy yellow lightGleams baleful as the tomb-fire drear.A gentle vision comes by nightMy lonely widowed heart to cheer:Her eyes are dim with many a tear,That once were guiding stars to mine:Her fond heart throbs with many a fear!I cannot bear to see thee shine.For thee, for thee, vile yellow slave,I left a heart that loved me true!I crossed the tedious ocean-wave,To roam in climes unkind and new.The cold wind of the stranger blewChill on my withered heart; the graveDark and untimely met my view,—And all for thee, vile yellow slave!Ha! com'st thou now so late to mockA wanderer's banished heart forlorn,Now that his frame the lightning shockOf sun-rays tipped with death has borne?From love, from friendship, country, torn,To memory's fond regrets the prey,Vile slave, thy yellow dross I scorn!Go mix thee with thy kindred clay!John Leyden.
Slave of the dark and dirty mine,What vanity has brought thee here?How can I love to see thee shineSo bright, whom I have bought so dear?The tent-ropes flapping lone I hearFor twilight converse, arm in arm;The jackal's shriek bursts on mine earWhen mirth and music wont to charm.
By Cherical's dark wandering streams,Where cane-tufts shadow all the wild,Sweet visions haunt my waking dreamsOf Teviot loved while still a child,Of castled rocks stupendous piledBy Esk or Eden's classic wave,Where loves of youth and friendship smiled,Uncursed by thee, vile yellow slave!
Fade, day-dreams sweet, from memory fade!The perished bliss of youth's first prime,That once so bright on fancy played,Revives no more in after-time.Far from my sacred natal clime,I haste to an untimely grave;The daring thoughts that soared sublimeAre sunk in ocean's southern wave.
Slave of the mine, thy yellow lightGleams baleful as the tomb-fire drear.A gentle vision comes by nightMy lonely widowed heart to cheer:Her eyes are dim with many a tear,That once were guiding stars to mine:Her fond heart throbs with many a fear!I cannot bear to see thee shine.
For thee, for thee, vile yellow slave,I left a heart that loved me true!I crossed the tedious ocean-wave,To roam in climes unkind and new.The cold wind of the stranger blewChill on my withered heart; the graveDark and untimely met my view,—And all for thee, vile yellow slave!
Ha! com'st thou now so late to mockA wanderer's banished heart forlorn,Now that his frame the lightning shockOf sun-rays tipped with death has borne?From love, from friendship, country, torn,To memory's fond regrets the prey,Vile slave, thy yellow dross I scorn!Go mix thee with thy kindred clay!
John Leyden.
Drawn by horses with decorous feet,A carriage for one went through the street,Polished as anthracite out of the mine,Tossing its plumes so stately and fine,As nods to the night a Norway pine.The passenger lay in Parian rest,As if, by the sculptor's hand caressed,A mortal life through the marble stole,And then till an angel calls the rollIt waits awhile for a human soul.He rode in state, but his carriage-fareWas left unpaid to his only heir;Hardly a man, from hovel to throne,Takes to this route in coach of his own,But borrows at last and travels alone.The driver sat in his silent seat;The world, as still as a field of wheat,Gave all the road to the speechless twain,And thought the passenger never againShould travel that way with living men.Not a robin held its little breath,But sang right on in the face of death;You never would dream, to see the skyGive glance for glance to the violet's eye,That aught between them could ever die.A wain bound east met the hearse bound west,Halted a moment, and passed abreast;And I verily think a stranger pairHave never met on a thoroughfare,Or a dim by-road, or anywhere:The hearse as slim and glossy and stillAs silken thread at a woman's will,Who watches her work with tears unshed,Broiders a grief with needle and thread,Mourns in pansies and cypress the dead;Spotless the steeds in a satin dress,That run for two worlds the Lord's Express,—Long as the route of Arcturus's ray,Brief as the Publican's trying to pray,No other steeds by no other wayCould go so far in a single day.From wagon broad and heavy and rudeA group looking out from a single hood;Striped with the flirt of a heedless lash,Dappled and dimmed with many a splash,"Gathered" behind like an old calash.It made you think of a schooner's sailMildewed with weather, tattered by gale,Down "by the run" from mizzen and main,—That canvas mapped with stipple and stainOf Western earth and the prairie rain.The watch-dog walked in his ribs betweenThe hinder wheels, with sleepy mien;A dangling pail to the axle slung;Astern of the wain a manger hung,—A schooner's boat by the davits swung.The white-faced boys sat three in a row,With eyes of wonder and heads of tow;Father looked sadly over his brood;Mother just lifted a flap of the hood;All saw the hearse,—and two understood.They thought of the one-eyed cabin small,Hid like a nest in the grasses tall,Where plains swept boldly off in the air,Grooved into heaven everywhere,—So near the stars' invisible stairThat planets and prairie almost met,—Just cleared its edges as they set!They thought of the level world's "divide,"And their hearts flowed down its other sideTo the grave of the little girl that died.They thought of childhood's neighborly hills,With sunshine aprons and ribbons of rills,That drew so near when the day went down,Put on a crimson and golden crown,And sat together in mantles brown;The Dawn's red plume in their winter caps,And Night asleep in their drowsy laps,Lightening the load of the shouldered woodBy shedding the shadows as they could,That gathered round where the homestead stood.They thought,—that pair in the rugged wain,Thinking with bosom rather than brain;They'll never know till their dying dayThat what they thought and never could say,Their hearts throbbed out in an Alpine lay,The old Waldensian song again;Thank God for the mountains, and amen!The wain gave a lurch, the hearse moved on,—A moment or two, and both were gone;The wain bound east, the hearse bound west,Both going home, both looking for rest.The Lord save all, and his name be blest!Benjamin F. Taylor.
Drawn by horses with decorous feet,A carriage for one went through the street,Polished as anthracite out of the mine,Tossing its plumes so stately and fine,As nods to the night a Norway pine.
The passenger lay in Parian rest,As if, by the sculptor's hand caressed,A mortal life through the marble stole,And then till an angel calls the rollIt waits awhile for a human soul.
He rode in state, but his carriage-fareWas left unpaid to his only heir;Hardly a man, from hovel to throne,Takes to this route in coach of his own,But borrows at last and travels alone.
The driver sat in his silent seat;The world, as still as a field of wheat,Gave all the road to the speechless twain,And thought the passenger never againShould travel that way with living men.
Not a robin held its little breath,But sang right on in the face of death;You never would dream, to see the skyGive glance for glance to the violet's eye,That aught between them could ever die.
A wain bound east met the hearse bound west,Halted a moment, and passed abreast;And I verily think a stranger pairHave never met on a thoroughfare,Or a dim by-road, or anywhere:
The hearse as slim and glossy and stillAs silken thread at a woman's will,Who watches her work with tears unshed,Broiders a grief with needle and thread,Mourns in pansies and cypress the dead;
Spotless the steeds in a satin dress,That run for two worlds the Lord's Express,—Long as the route of Arcturus's ray,Brief as the Publican's trying to pray,No other steeds by no other wayCould go so far in a single day.
From wagon broad and heavy and rudeA group looking out from a single hood;Striped with the flirt of a heedless lash,Dappled and dimmed with many a splash,"Gathered" behind like an old calash.
It made you think of a schooner's sailMildewed with weather, tattered by gale,Down "by the run" from mizzen and main,—That canvas mapped with stipple and stainOf Western earth and the prairie rain.
The watch-dog walked in his ribs betweenThe hinder wheels, with sleepy mien;A dangling pail to the axle slung;Astern of the wain a manger hung,—A schooner's boat by the davits swung.
The white-faced boys sat three in a row,With eyes of wonder and heads of tow;Father looked sadly over his brood;Mother just lifted a flap of the hood;All saw the hearse,—and two understood.
They thought of the one-eyed cabin small,Hid like a nest in the grasses tall,Where plains swept boldly off in the air,Grooved into heaven everywhere,—So near the stars' invisible stair
That planets and prairie almost met,—Just cleared its edges as they set!They thought of the level world's "divide,"And their hearts flowed down its other sideTo the grave of the little girl that died.
They thought of childhood's neighborly hills,With sunshine aprons and ribbons of rills,That drew so near when the day went down,Put on a crimson and golden crown,And sat together in mantles brown;
The Dawn's red plume in their winter caps,And Night asleep in their drowsy laps,Lightening the load of the shouldered woodBy shedding the shadows as they could,That gathered round where the homestead stood.
They thought,—that pair in the rugged wain,Thinking with bosom rather than brain;They'll never know till their dying dayThat what they thought and never could say,Their hearts throbbed out in an Alpine lay,The old Waldensian song again;Thank God for the mountains, and amen!
The wain gave a lurch, the hearse moved on,—A moment or two, and both were gone;The wain bound east, the hearse bound west,Both going home, both looking for rest.The Lord save all, and his name be blest!
Benjamin F. Taylor.
Like as the damask rose you see,Or like the blossoms on the tree,Or like the dainty flower of May,Or like the morning of the day,Or like the sun, or like the shade,Or like the gourd which Jonas had;Even such is man, whose thread is spun,Drawn out and cut, and so is done.The rose withers, the blossom blasteth,The flower fades, the morning hasteth,The sun sets, the shadow flies,The gourd consumes, and man,—he dies!Like to the grass that's newly sprung,Or like a tale that's new begun,Or like the bird that's here to-day,Or like the pearléd dew of May,Or like an hour, or like a span,Or like the singing of a swan;Even such is man, who lives by breath,Is here, now there, in life and death.The grass withers, the tale is ended,The bird is flown, the dew 's ascended,The hour is short, the span not long,The swan near death,—man's life is done!Like to a bubble in the brook,Or in a glass much like a look,Or like a shuttle in a weaver's hand,Or like the writing on the sand,Or like a thought, or like a dream,Or like the gliding of a stream;Even such is man, who lives by breath,Is here, now there, in life and death.The bubble 's out, the look 's forgot,The shuttle 's flung, the writing 's blot,The thought is past, the dream is gone,The water glides,—man's life is done!Like to a blaze of fond delight,Or like a morning clear and bright,Or like a frost, or like a shower,Or like the pride of Babel's tower,Or like the hour that guides the time,Or like to Beauty in her prime;Even such is man, whose glory lendsThat life a blaze or two, and ends.The morn 's o'ercast, joy turned to pain,The frost is thawed, dried up the rain,The tower falls, the hour is run,The beauty lost,—man's life is done!Like to an arrow from the bow,Or like swift course of waterflow,Or like that time 'twixt flood and ebb,Or like the spider's tender web,Or like a race, or like a goal,Or like the dealing of a dole;Even such is man, whose brittle stateIs always subject unto Fate.The arrow 's shot, the flood soon spent,The time 's no time, the web soon rent,The race soon run, the goal soon won,The dole soon dealt,—man's life is done!Like to the lightning from the sky,Or like a post that quick doth hie,Or like a quaver in a short song,Or like a journey three days long,Or like the snow when summer 's come,Or like the pear, or like the plum;Even such is man, who heaps up sorrow,Lives but this day, and dies to-morrow.The lightning 's past, the post must go,The song is short, the journey's so,The pear doth rot, the plum doth fall,The snow dissolves,—and so must all!Simon Wastel.
Like as the damask rose you see,Or like the blossoms on the tree,Or like the dainty flower of May,Or like the morning of the day,Or like the sun, or like the shade,Or like the gourd which Jonas had;Even such is man, whose thread is spun,Drawn out and cut, and so is done.The rose withers, the blossom blasteth,The flower fades, the morning hasteth,The sun sets, the shadow flies,The gourd consumes, and man,—he dies!
Like to the grass that's newly sprung,Or like a tale that's new begun,Or like the bird that's here to-day,Or like the pearléd dew of May,Or like an hour, or like a span,Or like the singing of a swan;Even such is man, who lives by breath,Is here, now there, in life and death.The grass withers, the tale is ended,The bird is flown, the dew 's ascended,The hour is short, the span not long,The swan near death,—man's life is done!
Like to a bubble in the brook,Or in a glass much like a look,Or like a shuttle in a weaver's hand,Or like the writing on the sand,Or like a thought, or like a dream,Or like the gliding of a stream;Even such is man, who lives by breath,Is here, now there, in life and death.The bubble 's out, the look 's forgot,The shuttle 's flung, the writing 's blot,The thought is past, the dream is gone,The water glides,—man's life is done!
Like to a blaze of fond delight,Or like a morning clear and bright,Or like a frost, or like a shower,Or like the pride of Babel's tower,Or like the hour that guides the time,Or like to Beauty in her prime;Even such is man, whose glory lendsThat life a blaze or two, and ends.The morn 's o'ercast, joy turned to pain,The frost is thawed, dried up the rain,The tower falls, the hour is run,The beauty lost,—man's life is done!
Like to an arrow from the bow,Or like swift course of waterflow,Or like that time 'twixt flood and ebb,Or like the spider's tender web,Or like a race, or like a goal,Or like the dealing of a dole;Even such is man, whose brittle stateIs always subject unto Fate.The arrow 's shot, the flood soon spent,The time 's no time, the web soon rent,The race soon run, the goal soon won,The dole soon dealt,—man's life is done!
Like to the lightning from the sky,Or like a post that quick doth hie,Or like a quaver in a short song,Or like a journey three days long,Or like the snow when summer 's come,Or like the pear, or like the plum;Even such is man, who heaps up sorrow,Lives but this day, and dies to-morrow.The lightning 's past, the post must go,The song is short, the journey's so,The pear doth rot, the plum doth fall,The snow dissolves,—and so must all!
Simon Wastel.
Like to the falling of a star,Or as the flights of eagles are,Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue,Or silver drops of morning dew,Or like a wind that chafes the flood,Or bubbles which on water stood;Even such is man, whose borrowed lightIs straight called in, and paid to-night.The wind blows out, the bubble dies,The spring entombed in autumn lies,The dew dries up, the star is shot,The flight is past,—and man forgot!Henry King.
Like to the falling of a star,Or as the flights of eagles are,Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue,Or silver drops of morning dew,Or like a wind that chafes the flood,Or bubbles which on water stood;Even such is man, whose borrowed lightIs straight called in, and paid to-night.The wind blows out, the bubble dies,The spring entombed in autumn lies,The dew dries up, the star is shot,The flight is past,—and man forgot!
Henry King.
O World! O Life! O Time!On whose last steps I climb,Trembling at that where I had stood before;When will return the glory of your prime?No more,—O nevermore!Out of the day and nightA joy has taken flight:Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoarMove my faint heart with grief, but with delightNo more,—O nevermore!Percy Bysshe Shelley.
O World! O Life! O Time!On whose last steps I climb,Trembling at that where I had stood before;When will return the glory of your prime?No more,—O nevermore!
Out of the day and nightA joy has taken flight:Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoarMove my faint heart with grief, but with delightNo more,—O nevermore!
Percy Bysshe Shelley.
Life! I know not what thou art,But know that thou and I must part;And when, or how, or where we met,I own to me's a secret yet.Life! we've been long together,Through pleasant and through cloudy weather;'Tis hard to part when friends are dear,Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear;Then steal away, give little warning,Choose thine own time,Say not Good Night,—but in some brighter climeBid me Good Morning.Anna Lætitia Barbauld.
Life! I know not what thou art,But know that thou and I must part;And when, or how, or where we met,I own to me's a secret yet.
Life! we've been long together,Through pleasant and through cloudy weather;'Tis hard to part when friends are dear,Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear;Then steal away, give little warning,Choose thine own time,Say not Good Night,—but in some brighter climeBid me Good Morning.
Anna Lætitia Barbauld.
The woods decay, the woods decay and fall,The vapors weep their burden to the ground,Man comes and tills the field and lies beneath,And after many a summer dies the swan.Me only cruel immortalityConsumes: I wither slowly in thine arms,Here at the quiet limit of the world,A white-haired shadow roaming like a dreamThe ever-silent spaces of the east,Far-folded mists, and gleaming halls of morn.Alas! for this gray shadow, once a man,—So glorious in his beauty and thy choice,Who madest him thy chosen, that he seemedTo his great heart none other than a god!I asked thee, "Give me immortality."Then didst thou grant mine asking with a smile,Like wealthy men who care not how they give.But thy strong Hours indignant worked their wills,And beat me down and marred and wasted me,And though they could not end me, left me maimedTo dwell in presence of immortal youth,Immortal age beside immortal youth,And all I was, in ashes. Can thy love,Thy beauty, make amends, though even now,Close over us, the silver star, thy guide,Shines in those tremulous eyes that fill with tearsTo hear me? Let me go: take back thy gift:Why should a man desire in any wayTo vary from the kindly race of men,Or pass beyond the goal of ordinanceWhere all should pause, as is most meet for all?A soft air fans the cloud apart: there comesA glimpse of that dark world where I was born.Once more the old mysterious glimmer stealsFrom thy pure brows, and from thy shoulders pure,And bosom beating with a heart renewed.Thy cheek begins to redden through the gloom,Thy sweet eyes brighten slowly close to mine,Ere yet they blind the stars, and the wild teamWhich love thee, yearning for thy yoke, arise,And shake the darkness from their loosened manes,And beat the twilight into flakes of fire.Lo! ever thus thou growest beautifulIn silence, then before thine answer givenDepartest, and thy tears are on my cheek.Why wilt thou ever scare me with thy tears,And make me tremble lest a saying learntIn days far-off, on that dark earth, be true?"The Gods themselves cannot recall their gifts."Ay me! ay me! with what another heartIn days far-off, and with what other eyesI used to watch—if I be he that watched—The lucid outline forming round thee; sawThe dim curls kindle into sunny rings;Changed with thy mystic change, and felt my bloodGlow with the glow that slowly crimsoned allThy presence and thy portals, while I lay,Mouth, forehead, eyelids, growing dewy-warmWith kisses balmier than half-opening budsOf April, and could hear the lips that kissedWhispering I knew not what of wild and sweet,Like that strange song I heard Apollo sing,While Ilion like a mist rose into towers.Yet hold me not forever in thine East:How can my nature longer mix with thine?Coldly thy rosy shadows bathe me, coldAre all thy lights, and cold my wrinkled feetUpon thy glimmering thresholds, when the steamFloats up from those dim fields about the homesOf happy men that have the power to die,And grassy barrows of the happier dead.Release me, and restore me to the ground:Thou seest all things, thou wilt see my grave;Thou wilt renew thy beauty morn by morn;I earth in earth forget these empty courts,And thee returning on thy silver wheels.Alfred Tennyson.
The woods decay, the woods decay and fall,The vapors weep their burden to the ground,Man comes and tills the field and lies beneath,And after many a summer dies the swan.Me only cruel immortalityConsumes: I wither slowly in thine arms,Here at the quiet limit of the world,A white-haired shadow roaming like a dreamThe ever-silent spaces of the east,Far-folded mists, and gleaming halls of morn.
Alas! for this gray shadow, once a man,—So glorious in his beauty and thy choice,Who madest him thy chosen, that he seemedTo his great heart none other than a god!I asked thee, "Give me immortality."Then didst thou grant mine asking with a smile,Like wealthy men who care not how they give.But thy strong Hours indignant worked their wills,And beat me down and marred and wasted me,And though they could not end me, left me maimedTo dwell in presence of immortal youth,Immortal age beside immortal youth,And all I was, in ashes. Can thy love,Thy beauty, make amends, though even now,Close over us, the silver star, thy guide,Shines in those tremulous eyes that fill with tearsTo hear me? Let me go: take back thy gift:Why should a man desire in any wayTo vary from the kindly race of men,Or pass beyond the goal of ordinanceWhere all should pause, as is most meet for all?
A soft air fans the cloud apart: there comesA glimpse of that dark world where I was born.Once more the old mysterious glimmer stealsFrom thy pure brows, and from thy shoulders pure,And bosom beating with a heart renewed.Thy cheek begins to redden through the gloom,Thy sweet eyes brighten slowly close to mine,Ere yet they blind the stars, and the wild teamWhich love thee, yearning for thy yoke, arise,And shake the darkness from their loosened manes,And beat the twilight into flakes of fire.
Lo! ever thus thou growest beautifulIn silence, then before thine answer givenDepartest, and thy tears are on my cheek.
Why wilt thou ever scare me with thy tears,And make me tremble lest a saying learntIn days far-off, on that dark earth, be true?"The Gods themselves cannot recall their gifts."
Ay me! ay me! with what another heartIn days far-off, and with what other eyesI used to watch—if I be he that watched—The lucid outline forming round thee; sawThe dim curls kindle into sunny rings;Changed with thy mystic change, and felt my bloodGlow with the glow that slowly crimsoned allThy presence and thy portals, while I lay,Mouth, forehead, eyelids, growing dewy-warmWith kisses balmier than half-opening budsOf April, and could hear the lips that kissedWhispering I knew not what of wild and sweet,Like that strange song I heard Apollo sing,While Ilion like a mist rose into towers.
Yet hold me not forever in thine East:How can my nature longer mix with thine?Coldly thy rosy shadows bathe me, coldAre all thy lights, and cold my wrinkled feetUpon thy glimmering thresholds, when the steamFloats up from those dim fields about the homesOf happy men that have the power to die,And grassy barrows of the happier dead.Release me, and restore me to the ground:Thou seest all things, thou wilt see my grave;Thou wilt renew thy beauty morn by morn;I earth in earth forget these empty courts,And thee returning on thy silver wheels.
Alfred Tennyson.
O woman of Three Cows, agragh! don't let yourtongue thus rattle!O don't be saucy, don't be stiff, because you may have cattle!I've seen—and here's my hand to you, I only say what's true—A many a one with twice your stock not half so proud as you.Good luck to you! don't scorn the poor, and don't be their despiser;For worldly wealth soon melts away, and cheats the very miser,And Death soon strips the proudest wreath from haughty human brows;Then don't be stiff, and don't be proud, good Woman of Three Cows!See where Mononia's heroes lie, proud Owen More's descendants,—'Tis they that won the glorious name, and had the grand attendants!If they were forced to bow to Fate, as every mortal bows,Can you be proud, can you be stiff, my Woman of Three Cows?The brave sons of the Lord of Clare, they left the land to mourning;Movrone! for they were banished, with no hope of their returning.Who knows in what abodes of want those youths were driven to house?Yet you can give yourself these airs, O Woman of Three Cows!O think of Donnell of the Ships, the chief whom nothing daunted,—See how he fell in distant Spain, unchronicled, unchanted!He sleeps, the great O'Sullivan, where thunder cannot rouse;Then ask yourself, should you be proud, good Woman of Three Cows?O'Ruark, Maguire, those souls of fire, whose names are shrined in story,—Think how their high achievements once made Erin's greatest glory!Yet now their bones lie mouldering under weeds and cypress boughs,And so, for all your pride, will yours, O Woman of Three Cows!The O'Carrolls also, famed when fame was only for the boldest,Rest in forgotten sepulchres with Erin's best and oldest;Yet who so great as they of yore, in battle or carouse?Just think of that, and hide your head, good Woman of Three Cows!Your neighbor's poor, and you it seems are big with vain ideas,Because, forsooth, you've got three cows,—one more, I see, than she has;That tongue of yours wags more at times than charity allows,But if you're strong be merciful, great Woman of Three Cows!Now, there you go! You still, of course, keep up your scornful bearing,And I'm too poor to hinder you; but, by the cloak I'm wearing,If I had but four cows myself, even though you were my spouse,I'd thwack you well to cure your pride, my Woman of Three Cows!James Clarence Mangan.
O woman of Three Cows, agragh! don't let yourtongue thus rattle!O don't be saucy, don't be stiff, because you may have cattle!I've seen—and here's my hand to you, I only say what's true—A many a one with twice your stock not half so proud as you.
Good luck to you! don't scorn the poor, and don't be their despiser;For worldly wealth soon melts away, and cheats the very miser,And Death soon strips the proudest wreath from haughty human brows;Then don't be stiff, and don't be proud, good Woman of Three Cows!
See where Mononia's heroes lie, proud Owen More's descendants,—'Tis they that won the glorious name, and had the grand attendants!If they were forced to bow to Fate, as every mortal bows,Can you be proud, can you be stiff, my Woman of Three Cows?
The brave sons of the Lord of Clare, they left the land to mourning;Movrone! for they were banished, with no hope of their returning.Who knows in what abodes of want those youths were driven to house?Yet you can give yourself these airs, O Woman of Three Cows!
O think of Donnell of the Ships, the chief whom nothing daunted,—See how he fell in distant Spain, unchronicled, unchanted!He sleeps, the great O'Sullivan, where thunder cannot rouse;Then ask yourself, should you be proud, good Woman of Three Cows?
O'Ruark, Maguire, those souls of fire, whose names are shrined in story,—Think how their high achievements once made Erin's greatest glory!Yet now their bones lie mouldering under weeds and cypress boughs,And so, for all your pride, will yours, O Woman of Three Cows!
The O'Carrolls also, famed when fame was only for the boldest,Rest in forgotten sepulchres with Erin's best and oldest;Yet who so great as they of yore, in battle or carouse?Just think of that, and hide your head, good Woman of Three Cows!
Your neighbor's poor, and you it seems are big with vain ideas,Because, forsooth, you've got three cows,—one more, I see, than she has;That tongue of yours wags more at times than charity allows,But if you're strong be merciful, great Woman of Three Cows!
Now, there you go! You still, of course, keep up your scornful bearing,And I'm too poor to hinder you; but, by the cloak I'm wearing,If I had but four cows myself, even though you were my spouse,I'd thwack you well to cure your pride, my Woman of Three Cows!
James Clarence Mangan.
My fairest child, I have no song to give you;No lark could pipe to skies so dull and gray;Yet, ere we part, one lesson I can leave youFor every day.Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever;Do noble things, not dream them, all day long:And so make life, death, and that vast foreverOne grand sweet song.Charles Kingsley.
My fairest child, I have no song to give you;No lark could pipe to skies so dull and gray;Yet, ere we part, one lesson I can leave youFor every day.
Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever;Do noble things, not dream them, all day long:And so make life, death, and that vast foreverOne grand sweet song.
Charles Kingsley.
Thou still unravished bride of quietness!Thou foster-child of silence and slow time!Sylvan historian, who canst thus expressA flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme!What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shapeOf deities or mortals, or of both,In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?What men or gods are these? What maidens loath?What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheardAre sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on,—Not to the sensual ear, but, more endeared,Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone!Fair youth beneath the trees, thou canst not leaveThy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;Bold lover, never, never canst thou kiss,Though winning near the goal; yet do not grieve,—She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss;Forever wilt thou love, and she be fair!Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shedYour leaves, nor ever bid the spring adieu:And happy melodist, unweariéd,Forever piping songs forever new;More happy love! more happy, happy love!Forever warm and still to be enjoyed,Forever panting, and forever young;All breathing human passion far above,That leaves a heart high sorrowful and cloyed,A burning forehead and a parching tongue.Who are these coming to the sacrifice?To what green altar, O mysterious priest,Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,And all her silken flanks with garlands dressed?What little town by river or sea-shore,Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn?Ah, little town, thy streets forevermoreWill silent be; and not a soul, to tellWhy thou art desolate, can e'er return.O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with bredeOf marble men and maidens overwrought,With forest branches and the trodden weed!Thou, silent form! dost tease us out of thought,As doth eternity. Cold pastoral!When old age shall this generation waste,Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woeThan ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st"Beauty is truth, truth beauty,"—that is allYe know on earth, and all ye need to know.John Keats.
Thou still unravished bride of quietness!Thou foster-child of silence and slow time!Sylvan historian, who canst thus expressA flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme!What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shapeOf deities or mortals, or of both,In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?What men or gods are these? What maidens loath?What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheardAre sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on,—Not to the sensual ear, but, more endeared,Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone!Fair youth beneath the trees, thou canst not leaveThy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;Bold lover, never, never canst thou kiss,Though winning near the goal; yet do not grieve,—She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss;Forever wilt thou love, and she be fair!
Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shedYour leaves, nor ever bid the spring adieu:And happy melodist, unweariéd,Forever piping songs forever new;More happy love! more happy, happy love!Forever warm and still to be enjoyed,Forever panting, and forever young;All breathing human passion far above,That leaves a heart high sorrowful and cloyed,A burning forehead and a parching tongue.
Who are these coming to the sacrifice?To what green altar, O mysterious priest,Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,And all her silken flanks with garlands dressed?What little town by river or sea-shore,Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn?Ah, little town, thy streets forevermoreWill silent be; and not a soul, to tellWhy thou art desolate, can e'er return.
O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with bredeOf marble men and maidens overwrought,With forest branches and the trodden weed!Thou, silent form! dost tease us out of thought,As doth eternity. Cold pastoral!When old age shall this generation waste,Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woeThan ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st"Beauty is truth, truth beauty,"—that is allYe know on earth, and all ye need to know.
John Keats.
Behold this ruin! 'Twas a skullOnce of ethereal spirit fullThis narrow cell was Life's retreat,This space was Thought's mysterious seat.What beauteous visions filled this spot,What dreams of pleasure long forgot,Nor hope, nor joy, nor love, nor fear,Have left one trace of record here.Beneath this mouldering canopyOnce shone the bright and busy eye,But start not at the dismal void,—If social love that eye employed,If with no lawless fire it gleamed,But through the dews of kindness beamed,That eye shall be forever brightWhen stars and sun are sunk in night.Within this hollow cavern hungThe ready, swift, and tuneful tongue;If Falsehood's honey it disdained,And when it could not praise was chained;If bold in Virtue's cause it spoke,Yet gentle concord never broke,—This silent tongue shall plead for theeWhen Time unveils Eternity!Say, did these fingers delve the mine?Or with the envied rubies shine?To hew the rock or wear a gemCan little now avail to them.But if the page of Truth they sought,Or comfort to the mourner brought,These hands a richer meed shall claimThan all that wait on Wealth and Fame.Avails it whether bare or shodThese feet the paths of duty trod?If from the bowers of Ease they fled,To seek Affliction's humble shed;If Grandeur's guilty bribe they spurned,And home to Virtue's cot returned,—These feet with angel wings shall vie,And tread the palace of the sky!Anonymous.
Behold this ruin! 'Twas a skullOnce of ethereal spirit fullThis narrow cell was Life's retreat,This space was Thought's mysterious seat.What beauteous visions filled this spot,What dreams of pleasure long forgot,Nor hope, nor joy, nor love, nor fear,Have left one trace of record here.
Beneath this mouldering canopyOnce shone the bright and busy eye,But start not at the dismal void,—If social love that eye employed,If with no lawless fire it gleamed,But through the dews of kindness beamed,That eye shall be forever brightWhen stars and sun are sunk in night.
Within this hollow cavern hungThe ready, swift, and tuneful tongue;If Falsehood's honey it disdained,And when it could not praise was chained;If bold in Virtue's cause it spoke,Yet gentle concord never broke,—This silent tongue shall plead for theeWhen Time unveils Eternity!
Say, did these fingers delve the mine?Or with the envied rubies shine?To hew the rock or wear a gemCan little now avail to them.But if the page of Truth they sought,Or comfort to the mourner brought,These hands a richer meed shall claimThan all that wait on Wealth and Fame.
Avails it whether bare or shodThese feet the paths of duty trod?If from the bowers of Ease they fled,To seek Affliction's humble shed;If Grandeur's guilty bribe they spurned,And home to Virtue's cot returned,—These feet with angel wings shall vie,And tread the palace of the sky!
Anonymous.