 | Forest buds, from the woods of Maine |  |
68
TWENTY-ONE.
Twenty-one! 'tis yet youth's early morning,—
Life's real, earnest strife is but begun,—
Yet there falls a stern mysterious warning
O'er my soul, as clouds across the sun,
And a voice says, “Work ere day be done!”
Life's real, earnest strife is but begun,—
Yet there falls a stern mysterious warning
O'er my soul, as clouds across the sun,
And a voice says, “Work ere day be done!”
Twenty-one! and silently before me,
Shade of the dead Past, I see thee rise;—
Cast not now thy mournful presence o'er me,
Turn not on me thy reproachful eyes!
Darkly on my heart their meaning lies.
Shade of the dead Past, I see thee rise;—
Cast not now thy mournful presence o'er me,
Turn not on me thy reproachful eyes!
Darkly on my heart their meaning lies.
For they ask me—“Hast thou raised one altar
To the Spirit of the Good and True?
Wherefore do thy footsteps idly falter
Thus at duty's gate, and pass not through,
While theré yet remains so much to do?”
To the Spirit of the Good and True?
Wherefore do thy footsteps idly falter
Thus at duty's gate, and pass not through,
While theré yet remains so much to do?”
69
It is that my weak hands have no power,
And I cannot labor as I would;
Lacking eloquence, and genius' dower,
How can I achieve a single good?
How be heard among the multitude?
And I cannot labor as I would;
Lacking eloquence, and genius' dower,
How can I achieve a single good?
How be heard among the multitude?
Rouse thee, heart, from thine inactive slumber!
Even the humblest has a sphere to fill,
And the deeds of every hour I number
Help to swell the tide of good or ill;—
Rouse! thy sloth may be atoned for still!
Even the humblest has a sphere to fill,
And the deeds of every hour I number
Help to swell the tide of good or ill;—
Rouse! thy sloth may be atoned for still!
If I cause one heart to beat more lightly,
If I soothe a grief or ease a pain,
If I make one tearful eye beam brightly,
With the light of happiness again,
I shall not have labored all in vain.
If I soothe a grief or ease a pain,
If I make one tearful eye beam brightly,
With the light of happiness again,
I shall not have labored all in vain.
| Forest buds, from the woods of Maine | |