 | Ximena ; or the battle of the Sierra Morena, and other poems |  |
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THE DUTY OF MAN.
INSCRIBED TO JOHN G. WHITTIER.
Why do we live?
'Tis not alone for toil—
For weary plodding in the dusty world,
Or dreamy ease in pleasure's tempting bowers.
Has life no aim? and must we idly breathe
Our days appointed, and then glide away,
Without a record in the hearts of men,
To tell that we have been? Speaks there no voice
Within the spirit's inmost halls, to bid
Our slumbering energies awake?—to call
Strong hopes and high resolves to quickened life?
Has truth no claim upon our silent tongues?
Mercy no work for our inactive hands?
Holds wrong no sway?
For weary plodding in the dusty world,
Or dreamy ease in pleasure's tempting bowers.
Has life no aim? and must we idly breathe
Our days appointed, and then glide away,
Without a record in the hearts of men,
To tell that we have been? Speaks there no voice
Within the spirit's inmost halls, to bid
Our slumbering energies awake?—to call
Strong hopes and high resolves to quickened life?
Has truth no claim upon our silent tongues?
Mercy no work for our inactive hands?
Holds wrong no sway?
Awake, then, slumbering soul!
Too long the leaden sleep of apathy
Has locked thy kindlier feelings up, and made
Thy life a dull and aimless being, void
Of living, breathing beauty! Dream no more
Within the drowsy by-ways of the world,
But join the scanty band on its broad field,
Who sow in tears the germs of noble deeds,
Which future generations reap in joy.
Pluck not alone the pleasant flowers that bloom
Within its quiet walks, but garner up
The fruit that may sustain thee, when the vain
And hollow mockery of worldly wealth
Can buy not life, nor bar the angel out,
That gives the soul the freedom of the skies!
Too long the leaden sleep of apathy
Has locked thy kindlier feelings up, and made
Thy life a dull and aimless being, void
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Within the drowsy by-ways of the world,
But join the scanty band on its broad field,
Who sow in tears the germs of noble deeds,
Which future generations reap in joy.
Pluck not alone the pleasant flowers that bloom
Within its quiet walks, but garner up
The fruit that may sustain thee, when the vain
And hollow mockery of worldly wealth
Can buy not life, nor bar the angel out,
That gives the soul the freedom of the skies!
Oh! what a life his is, whose selfish heart,
Deaf to the pleading voice of human wo,
Seeks but its own enjoyment all unshared!
The nobler passions of the mind, in him,
Debased from their high mission, but increase
His sum of future ill. Ambition, eagle-winged,
That, mounting, sought the sun, in mid-career,
Pierced by his own swift barb, shall seek the dust;
Even Hope shall lose her song and sunny smile,
And twine a nightshade wreath around his brow.
No grateful voice shall haunt his musing hours,
Telling of hearts his active love made glad;
No joyous face shall mingle with his dreams,
And smile on him a blessing!
Deaf to the pleading voice of human wo,
Seeks but its own enjoyment all unshared!
The nobler passions of the mind, in him,
Debased from their high mission, but increase
His sum of future ill. Ambition, eagle-winged,
That, mounting, sought the sun, in mid-career,
Pierced by his own swift barb, shall seek the dust;
Even Hope shall lose her song and sunny smile,
And twine a nightshade wreath around his brow.
No grateful voice shall haunt his musing hours,
Telling of hearts his active love made glad;
No joyous face shall mingle with his dreams,
And smile on him a blessing!
Joy! faithful ones,
Who, heedless of the rude world's scorn, have done
Your duty unto God and man! Though now
Reviled and shunned, the men of future years
Shall build your fame, where all the floods of Time,
That wash out Glory's footprints from the shore,
May never reach; the Statesman's crown shall be
The gratitude of man; the Poet's wreath,
The love and homage of the hearts his song
Has taught to catch, beyond this mortal veil,
Bright glimpses of a higher, loftier sphere!
Who, heedless of the rude world's scorn, have done
Your duty unto God and man! Though now
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Shall build your fame, where all the floods of Time,
That wash out Glory's footprints from the shore,
May never reach; the Statesman's crown shall be
The gratitude of man; the Poet's wreath,
The love and homage of the hearts his song
Has taught to catch, beyond this mortal veil,
Bright glimpses of a higher, loftier sphere!
| Ximena ; or the battle of the Sierra Morena, and other poems | |