Thomas Cole's poetry the collected poems of America's foremost painter of the Hudson River School reflecting his feelings for nature and the romantic spirit of the Nineteenth Century |
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The Man of Pride |
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 | Thomas Cole's poetry |  |
185
88.
The Man of Pride
He sat upon a rock that proudly rear'd
Upon the mountain's top; higher than aught around.
His brow bore lines, which were not those that years
Are wont to grave—but stronger deeper marks
Of thought, of suffering, and of passion's power—
Upon the mountain's top; higher than aught around.
His brow bore lines, which were not those that years
Are wont to grave—but stronger deeper marks
Of thought, of suffering, and of passion's power—
His face was nobly formed; but pride sat stern
Upon its beauty, darkening it as though
A fiend there cast the shadow of his wing—
Upon its beauty, darkening it as though
A fiend there cast the shadow of his wing—
There he had come to die: scorning the world,
In which he long had toiled for preeminence
By trampling too, upon his fellow man
Whom he considered slave—and he had risen—
High, and had been cast down—but yet that spirit pride,
Could never be cut down—He left the world
He could not dominate—and fled to wilds
To be a monarch there; but pride is torture—
For in the wild the beasts would not obey,
The winds blew where they listed, and the storm
Beat fiercely e'en on him—He climbed the hill
It was a foolish thought—that he might stand
And look from high upon the world he hated,
He gazed upon it and he wished for power
To scatter lightenings into distant lands—
In which he long had toiled for preeminence
By trampling too, upon his fellow man
Whom he considered slave—and he had risen—
High, and had been cast down—but yet that spirit pride,
Could never be cut down—He left the world
He could not dominate—and fled to wilds
To be a monarch there; but pride is torture—
For in the wild the beasts would not obey,
The winds blew where they listed, and the storm
Beat fiercely e'en on him—He climbed the hill
It was a foolish thought—that he might stand
And look from high upon the world he hated,
He gazed upon it and he wished for power
To scatter lightenings into distant lands—
And in the fury of excited pride
Towards the clouds he raised an impious hand
To reach the thunderbolt and fell and died
By his own passion's lightening struck down.
Towards the clouds he raised an impious hand
To reach the thunderbolt and fell and died
By his own passion's lightening struck down.
| Thomas Cole's poetry | |