 | Poems |  |
89
ON VISITING THE TOMB OF DAVID HUME,
THE HISTORIAN, IN A BURYING GROUND AT EDINBURGH.
There comes a season, when man's eye, disturb'd,
Looks forth for nothing further, but appears
Awhile to close; and, the reflecting mind
Deep pondering on itself, forgets the world.
Fair Spring, with all her pearls, and tints, and flowers,
No longer charms, nor Summer's purple fruits
Distilling nectar'd sweets, nor Autumn's crops
Of glowing gold; nor Winter, with his frosts
Mantling the mountain-tops, and binding, close,
With freezing hand, waters, and glens, and groves.
Beauteously grotesque, or wanton-wild, the scene
Smiles vainly; for th' unconscious eye sees not
In seeing, with no rapture swells the breast:
Morning from saffron wing her airs perfum'd
Scatters in vain, and wakes her minstrel bird,
The tuneful lark, in vain; kind Heaven around
Drops softest influence, and high Noon in vain
Darts down her gaudiest ray: when Night ascends
Her throne imperial, and bright hosts attend
Of myriad constellations, man in vain
Gazes; and walks a stranger through the world.
For what may cheer the sight, when th' heart complains?
He, Moralist, by Sorrow's softest touch
Chastened and mellowed, like the golden ore
In furnace melted, ponders on distress,
Follies, and human frailties; forming thence
The rules of patience, and the laws prescrib'd,
On meek benevolence: manacling strong
The raving passions: till the soul, sublim'd,
And inly strengthen'd, grows serene and good.
Looks forth for nothing further, but appears
Awhile to close; and, the reflecting mind
Deep pondering on itself, forgets the world.
Fair Spring, with all her pearls, and tints, and flowers,
No longer charms, nor Summer's purple fruits
Distilling nectar'd sweets, nor Autumn's crops
Of glowing gold; nor Winter, with his frosts
Mantling the mountain-tops, and binding, close,
90
Beauteously grotesque, or wanton-wild, the scene
Smiles vainly; for th' unconscious eye sees not
In seeing, with no rapture swells the breast:
Morning from saffron wing her airs perfum'd
Scatters in vain, and wakes her minstrel bird,
The tuneful lark, in vain; kind Heaven around
Drops softest influence, and high Noon in vain
Darts down her gaudiest ray: when Night ascends
Her throne imperial, and bright hosts attend
Of myriad constellations, man in vain
Gazes; and walks a stranger through the world.
For what may cheer the sight, when th' heart complains?
He, Moralist, by Sorrow's softest touch
Chastened and mellowed, like the golden ore
In furnace melted, ponders on distress,
Follies, and human frailties; forming thence
91
On meek benevolence: manacling strong
The raving passions: till the soul, sublim'd,
And inly strengthen'd, grows serene and good.
Such is the season, when near Avon's banks
Bards weep at Shakspeare's tomb, with inward grief
Sorrowing, that such, whose songs have charm'd the world,
Lie silent down so quickly, like a harp
Old, broken, useless, whence gay melodies
The skilful minstrel never wakes again;
Or like a weapon, by th' encrusted mould
Close over-grown, and faded, till no more
Tapers and shines the time-devoured steel.
Such, too, the season, when from Calton Hill
The travellers with quicken'd steps approach
Death's silent mansion, where in long repose
Together sleep philosopher and fool,
Unenvying, undistinguish'd: there the sage
With reverence pauses; there the silent tear
Of sympathy lets fall, while on thy tomb
Gazing, oh, Hume! laughter, and song, and wit,
And idle babbling absent, much he sighs,
And thinks, I too must die:—Thro' the close breast
A pleasing sadness steals: for, 'mid the crowd
Of mortals dead, to ponder o'er the few
Of frame more durable, who living rais'd
Their fame's more lasting monument, and lest
A legacy of deeds to times remote,
Is sweet, even when the soul is sad, is sweet.
Bards weep at Shakspeare's tomb, with inward grief
Sorrowing, that such, whose songs have charm'd the world,
Lie silent down so quickly, like a harp
Old, broken, useless, whence gay melodies
The skilful minstrel never wakes again;
Or like a weapon, by th' encrusted mould
Close over-grown, and faded, till no more
Tapers and shines the time-devoured steel.
92
The travellers with quicken'd steps approach
Death's silent mansion, where in long repose
Together sleep philosopher and fool,
Unenvying, undistinguish'd: there the sage
With reverence pauses; there the silent tear
Of sympathy lets fall, while on thy tomb
Gazing, oh, Hume! laughter, and song, and wit,
And idle babbling absent, much he sighs,
And thinks, I too must die:—Thro' the close breast
A pleasing sadness steals: for, 'mid the crowd
Of mortals dead, to ponder o'er the few
Of frame more durable, who living rais'd
Their fame's more lasting monument, and lest
93
Is sweet, even when the soul is sad, is sweet.
And, such wast thou, sagacious moralist,
Whose lessons shine not only in thy works,
Thy life was moral: and may I condemn
The man of searching mind, who systems weigh'd
In judgment's nicer scale, and yielded not
His weight of faith, when he durst not believe?
Whose lessons shine not only in thy works,
Thy life was moral: and may I condemn
The man of searching mind, who systems weigh'd
In judgment's nicer scale, and yielded not
His weight of faith, when he durst not believe?
Nor less with grace, and ease, and dignity
Chasten'd, the historian shines, tho' not bestarr'd
With fancies luminous:—yet does the page
Spread a mild lustre round; nor shall the speck
That lightly passes o'er, eclipse its beams.
Chasten'd, the historian shines, tho' not bestarr'd
With fancies luminous:—yet does the page
Spread a mild lustre round; nor shall the speck
That lightly passes o'er, eclipse its beams.
| Poems | |