 | The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer |  |
349
MUSINGS.
The fleeting hours, the fleeting hours,
They pass like dreams away—
Pale blight hangs on the nectar'd flowers
That opened yesterday—
The low wind like a mourner grieves
While shaking down their faded leaves.
They pass like dreams away—
Pale blight hangs on the nectar'd flowers
That opened yesterday—
The low wind like a mourner grieves
While shaking down their faded leaves.
Where is the laurelled son of Mars
A nation greeted yester morn,
The hero of an hundred wars
On his proud charger borne?
The tongue of chivalry is dumb—
The requiem was the muffled drum.
A nation greeted yester morn,
The hero of an hundred wars
On his proud charger borne?
The tongue of chivalry is dumb—
The requiem was the muffled drum.
Where is the young, bewitching belle
Who dazzled yesterday the sight;
Whose matchless beauty from his cell
Might lure an anchorite?
Where are her thrilling pulse and lute?
The grave will answer—both are mute!
Who dazzled yesterday the sight;
Whose matchless beauty from his cell
Might lure an anchorite?
Where are her thrilling pulse and lute?
The grave will answer—both are mute!
Where are the pale-browed heirs of thought—
The bard—the orator—the sage—
Who yesterday a wide world taught,
And dignified their age?
Their great ambitious hearts are cold,
And fellowship with dust they hold.
The bard—the orator—the sage—
Who yesterday a wide world taught,
And dignified their age?
Their great ambitious hearts are cold,
And fellowship with dust they hold.
Then ask me not for false renown
To waste away the midnight oil—
Though grandeur and a gilded crown
Are the rewards of toil:
Pure jewels and the types of power,
What are they in the dying hour?
To waste away the midnight oil—
Though grandeur and a gilded crown
Are the rewards of toil:
350
What are they in the dying hour?
Or, rather urge me to forsake
The vanities that here have birth,
And, in the morn of being, break
Base bonds that bind to earth,
And bridge, while yet a thing of breath,
With trusting hope the gulf of death.
The vanities that here have birth,
And, in the morn of being, break
Base bonds that bind to earth,
And bridge, while yet a thing of breath,
With trusting hope the gulf of death.
| The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer | |