The Demon of Destiny And Other Poems. By John Galt |
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| 1. | FIRST EPISTLE—CONDUCT. |
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| 3. |
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 | The Demon of Destiny |  |
FIRST EPISTLE—CONDUCT.
Be blithe, dear boys: the hope that you are so
Is all the happiness I now can know;
For ails and cares my weary couch molest,
And aimless reveries prohibit rest.
Is all the happiness I now can know;
For ails and cares my weary couch molest,
And aimless reveries prohibit rest.
As one beholds, benighted on the shore,
Stopp'd by the stream he ne'er shall ferry more,
The lights of love in his far home so bright,
And looks, forgetful of the low'ring night,
Fond Fancy giv'n to minister relief,
Renews your gambols, and grows gay in grief.
Stopp'd by the stream he ne'er shall ferry more,
The lights of love in his far home so bright,
And looks, forgetful of the low'ring night,
Fond Fancy giv'n to minister relief,
Renews your gambols, and grows gay in grief.
Ah! gladd'ning scenes that never can return,—
The change that must be, wherefore do I mourn?
But never more shall such dear scenes again
Return to mitigate distress or pain.
For envious Time hath to its dismal den
Convey'd my boys, and substituted men;
Quench'd the pure sparklings of the joyous day,
Like morning dews that noon so sweeps away—
Bade darkening skies with drifting clouds impend,
And Truth austere your bounding boyhood end.
The change that must be, wherefore do I mourn?
But never more shall such dear scenes again
Return to mitigate distress or pain.
For envious Time hath to its dismal den
Convey'd my boys, and substituted men;
Quench'd the pure sparklings of the joyous day,
Like morning dews that noon so sweeps away—
Bade darkening skies with drifting clouds impend,
And Truth austere your bounding boyhood end.
Sometimes I try, with unavailing art,
To raze the pictures glowing on my heart,
And in their stead to paint maturer forms;
But still with yours, delighted mem'ry warms,
Yours ever fair—the dimpled young of joy,
Such as I knew, and know what cares annoy.
To raze the pictures glowing on my heart,
And in their stead to paint maturer forms;
But still with yours, delighted mem'ry warms,
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Such as I knew, and know what cares annoy.
Oh! if ordain'd,—and gnawing worms infest
The bowers where Innocence was once a guest,
And hopes grown sere, as yellow foliage there
Omen the season of inclement care—
May still your spirit, blest with Nature's aid,
Encounter Fortune ever undismay'd:
For half the malice which afflicts her thrall,
The eye serene of courage may appal,—
Not the bold courage of the boist'rous brave,
With passion insolent, the vices' slave,
But the calm worthy, who intrepid dares,
With open bosom bar'd, hath honour'd scars.
Feel as your kind, but as your betters show
That golden fortitude that's bright in woe;
And if foredoom'd, you yet must vanquish'd lie,
Grasp firm the staff of your integrity.
The bowers where Innocence was once a guest,
And hopes grown sere, as yellow foliage there
Omen the season of inclement care—
May still your spirit, blest with Nature's aid,
Encounter Fortune ever undismay'd:
For half the malice which afflicts her thrall,
The eye serene of courage may appal,—
Not the bold courage of the boist'rous brave,
With passion insolent, the vices' slave,
But the calm worthy, who intrepid dares,
With open bosom bar'd, hath honour'd scars.
Feel as your kind, but as your betters show
That golden fortitude that's bright in woe;
And if foredoom'd, you yet must vanquish'd lie,
Grasp firm the staff of your integrity.
'Tis not the booty, when the battle's won,
That makes the honour of the laurel crown,
But dauntless manhood in the strife of Death,—
The deed of glory is the victor's wreath.
That makes the honour of the laurel crown,
But dauntless manhood in the strife of Death,—
The deed of glory is the victor's wreath.
And yet not victory ever is the prize
Of him who wrong or insolence defies—
A brighter guerdon in his breast is bright,
When Duty perishes subdued by might.
Abash'd, abas'd, the baffled victor shrinks,
Sham'd with success, and honourless he slinks,
To rue with fame a stain'd ignoble fate;
For but the motive makes the hero great.
Of him who wrong or insolence defies—
A brighter guerdon in his breast is bright,
When Duty perishes subdued by might.
Abash'd, abas'd, the baffled victor shrinks,
Sham'd with success, and honourless he slinks,
To rue with fame a stain'd ignoble fate;
For but the motive makes the hero great.
Though low and laborous your lot be cast
From storms of strife, the battle and the blast,
Remember still that life itself is war,
And needs the courage which inspires to dare.
Man ever is, whate'er his garb may be,
But as a soldier, and in jeopardy:
The highest posted, Fortune may abase;
None are so low that Fortune may not raise.
From storms of strife, the battle and the blast,
Remember still that life itself is war,
And needs the courage which inspires to dare.
Man ever is, whate'er his garb may be,
But as a soldier, and in jeopardy:
The highest posted, Fortune may abase;
None are so low that Fortune may not raise.
Yet 'tis not meet in every turn of life
To show the valour that defies in strife;
For gentle habitudes, and aims to please,
Sweeten the solace of unburthen'd ease.
Yes, life though rugged, hath green nooks and dells,
Where Leisure rests, and Mem'ry sometimes dwells:
Nor is it wise, in such serene retreats,
To think stern thoughts, and muse tempestuous threats.
To show the valour that defies in strife;
For gentle habitudes, and aims to please,
Sweeten the solace of unburthen'd ease.
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Where Leisure rests, and Mem'ry sometimes dwells:
Nor is it wise, in such serene retreats,
To think stern thoughts, and muse tempestuous threats.
Oh! rather strive with courtesy to wile
The pensive labourer passing from his toil,
To cheerful fancies as he plods along,
And charm the heavy hearted's sigh to song;
For blessed charity that loves to give
Her alms and boons, and lure the lost to live,
Has a reward from her own gracious breast;
And to be kind is to be doubly blest—
Blest in bestowing sympathy on woe,
And in the bliss of having to bestow.
The pensive labourer passing from his toil,
To cheerful fancies as he plods along,
And charm the heavy hearted's sigh to song;
For blessed charity that loves to give
Her alms and boons, and lure the lost to live,
Has a reward from her own gracious breast;
And to be kind is to be doubly blest—
Blest in bestowing sympathy on woe,
And in the bliss of having to bestow.
12th August, 1836.
| The Demon of Destiny | |