Beauties of the mind, a poetical sketch :: :: University of Virginia Library

“Yet still there whispers the small voice within,
Heard thro' Gain's silence, and o'er Glory's din;
Whatever creed be taught or land be trod,
Man's conscience is the oracle of God!”
Byron.

I

He looked upon the ocean bright—

“A throne was erected for Xerxes upon an eminence; and there seeing all the sea crowded with his vessels, and the land covered with his troops, he at first felt a secret joy in surveying with his own eyes the vast extent of his power, and considered himself the most happy of mortals; but reflecting soon afterwards, that of so many thousands, in one hundred years' time there would not be one living soul remaining, his joy was turned into grief, and he could not forbear weeping at the instability of human things. Rollin.

And, far as he could gaze,
One glorious vision met his sight,
Lit with triumphant rays!—
His ships in thousands swept the wave,
In thousands stood his warriors brave,
Worthy a monarch's praise!—
From east to west—o'er sea and land—
Wav'd scarf and plume—flash'd spear and brand!

II

He turn'd—what to the monarch then
Was splendidly reveal'd?—
Rank upon rank—two million men
Spread mountain, rock, and field:
Amazing host!—before his eye
They marched, array'd for victory!—
To conquer—not to yield!
Ambition fired his lofty soul—
The world seem'd laid 'neath his control!

III

That vast and valiant multitude
Own'd none save him their lord;
Nations to him for safety sued,
Thrones trembled at his word:
He moved!—shook earth and boundless deep;
He spoke!—and far as tempests sweep
His mighty voice was heard!—
He fought!—deep pestilence and blight
Polluted long the field of fight.

IV

Yet now, while gathering far and wide,
His legions shone to view;
A breath of woe o'er vaunting pride,
Its withering shadow threw:
O power! where are thy glories now?
Thy votaries own, with burning brow,
They're fleeting, frail, and few;
They find thy lustre, when most proud,
Is but the gilding on a cloud.

V

In light of youth, eager to bleed
For honours to be won;
Or pride of age and martial deed,
Victors of battles done;
They throng'd around him, while one thought
Into his brain like poison wrought,
He strove, in vain, to shun;
Like the destroyer's breath it came,
With chain and rack—with steel and flame.

VI

'Twas this—that in one hundred years,
Which leave us like a dream,
Recording but life's many tears—
Lost youth nought may redeem:
Not one of all the breathing host,
That moment gladdening sea and coast,
Which god-like then might seem,
But would be mouldering in the grave
With worms or monsters of the wave!

VII

And 'tis a thought the mind to sear
In brightest days of life,
To lay the hopes we hold most dear,
Bare to the torturer's knife:
It is a thought of bitter woe
To find with all we love below
Disease and death is rife!
To see the beauteous forms we prize
Fade day by day before our eyes!

VIII

The mighty monarch, in that hour
Of pageantry, descried
How transient was all human power,
How weak all human pride;
How poor the objects art may gild;
The very rock on which we build
Our fame—how false, when tried!
His conscience, which so long had slept,
Reprov'd him—and he wept!—he wept!