The Desolation of Eyam :: :: University of Virginia Library

No! there needs no long abode in this our mortal stage
To prove how darkly true are the sad words of the sage.
To prove our pleasures vanity—that each must here inherit,
How bright soe'er his youth may be, vexation of the spirit.
There is agony in war, in famine, and in flight,
In the rending of love's bonds,—in the trusting bosom's blight.
There is poverty's dim life,—shame—scorn—guilt's lack of ease,
And a fate to wring the innocent with a pang as sharp as these.

There was gladness and bright triumph in a pleasant little dome
Shrouded amongst the village trees, like a rural poet's home;
The sun shone through the waving boughs, on its rose-girt walls of white,
But within!—oh yes—within, was the rushing tide of light.
For there came a hasty note from a stripling at the sea,
Telling of martial glory won, and of honours yet to be.
Then kindled the father's brow—then the mother's tears gushed out,
The children leapt up, wild with joy, and gave a deafening shout.

Oh! that the fearful war was o'er, that the gallant boy might come
To the proud hearts he has blessed, in his quiet native home.
So spake parental tongues, on that and many a day;
So echoed the young children, 'neath the garden trees at play.

And he came, ere it was long, to that blessed group he came;
But alas! 'twas not in transport, for he hardly seemed the same;
For his spirit had sunk down; dead to glory and to joy;
And his mother gazed in silence on her tall and dying boy.

Would'st thou learn of all earth's woes the most melancholy thing,
Thou should'st have seen that youth come home—to die in the sweet spring.
Thou should'st have heard his mother's wail,—have seen her wild arms thrown
Around him, and have listened to his father's bitter groan.
Have seen those merry children come crowding to the door,
And cry, in innocent delight, “dear Alfred go no more!”
And then have seen him folded in loving arms at eve,
Gazing on bright, despairing eyes, 'twere death itself to leave.

Thou should'st have felt with what a heart he wandered through each place,
Each haunt of happy boyhood—how he met each well-known face.
In the mossy-tufted woods, where the early primrose gleamed,
How remembered feelings came, and the secret sorrow streamed.
In the sunshine when he basked, and saw the field-flowers wave,
And felt how soon the one would gild, the others strew his grave.
No! none of all earth's woes ever touched me like this thing,
Like this gallant boy brought home to die in the sweet spring.