 | The Poetical Works of John Critchley Prince |  |
330
RETROSPECTION.
“I might have been”—oh! sad, suggestive words!
So full of hidden meaning, yet so vain!
How sadly do they sound on memory's chords,
And waken feelings of regretful pain!
I might have been a wiser, better man,
With signs of well-won honour on my brow,
Had I adhered to nature's simple plan,
Or reasoned with myself, as I do now.
True that my life has been with ills beset,
Early neglect, and poverty, and gloom,
Within whose shades—how well remembered yet!—
My mind found neither sustenance nor room;
Yet, with instinctive longing for the right,
It sought for fitting food, and struggled towards the light.
So full of hidden meaning, yet so vain!
How sadly do they sound on memory's chords,
And waken feelings of regretful pain!
I might have been a wiser, better man,
With signs of well-won honour on my brow,
Had I adhered to nature's simple plan,
Or reasoned with myself, as I do now.
True that my life has been with ills beset,
Early neglect, and poverty, and gloom,
Within whose shades—how well remembered yet!—
My mind found neither sustenance nor room;
Yet, with instinctive longing for the right,
It sought for fitting food, and struggled towards the light.
Too late to gather up the waste of years,
And turn to profit the encumbering dross;
The gold has vanished,—and these sudden tears
Attest my silent sorrow for the loss.
Too late to win the humble meed of fame
I hoped and strove for in my early days;
Too late to cast the shadow from my name,
And turn the world's hard censure into praise;
Too late to ask the dear beloved and lost,
Forgiveness for stern word and galling deed,
Uttered and done at such a fearful cost
That I am bankrupt,—and too late to plead:
But oh, my God! here on my suppliant knee
I ask,—Am I too late for mercy and for Thee?
And turn to profit the encumbering dross;
The gold has vanished,—and these sudden tears
Attest my silent sorrow for the loss.
Too late to win the humble meed of fame
I hoped and strove for in my early days;
Too late to cast the shadow from my name,
And turn the world's hard censure into praise;
Too late to ask the dear beloved and lost,
Forgiveness for stern word and galling deed,
Uttered and done at such a fearful cost
That I am bankrupt,—and too late to plead:
But oh, my God! here on my suppliant knee
I ask,—Am I too late for mercy and for Thee?
| The Poetical Works of John Critchley Prince | |