Minor Poems, including Napoleon :: :: University of Virginia Library

I have not yet lived many years,
Nor have those years been calmly bright;
For many cares, and griefs, and fears,
Have darkly veil'd their light:
Yet, even now, at times I deem,
To contemplation's pensive eye,
Symptoms exist, by which 'twould seem
That darker days draw nigh.

173

II

The early flush of sanguine hope,
Which once, elate in confidence,
With disappointment well could cope,
And wrestle with suspense;
The vivid warmth of fancy's glow,
Which by its own creative powers
Could body forth, on earth below,
The forms of brighter bowers:

III

The young imaginings of thought,
Freshness of feeling,—all that made
Existence with enchantment fraught,
At times seem wrapt in shade:
And moods of mind will come unbid,
When dark and darker grows the gloom,
Within whose depths obscure, half hid,
Appears the opening tomb!

174

IV

I will not say that all is night;
For reason's pallid lamp,—the ray
Of revelation's glorious light,
At seasons let in day;
And by its beams, in mercy given,
That soul-enthralling, fearful gloom
Unfolds, when thus asunder riven,
A vista through the tomb.

V

But O! within, above, around,
Enough is darkly overcast,
From which this painful truth is found—
Life's brightest days are past:
And many a mournful sign appeals
Unto my musing spirit's eye,
Which, to my pensive thought, reveals
That darker days are nigh.

175

VI

And let them come!—Shall man receive,
In this probationary state,
Good from his God, yet weakly grieve
When He, as wise as great,
Sees right, with merciful design,
To send that salutary ill,
Which, meekly borne, through love benign,
Effects his gracious will?

VII

The cloudless glory of morn's sky,
Which ushers in a beauteous day,
What time the viewless lark, on high,
Chaunts forth his cheerful lay,
Is beautiful; but clouds, and showers,
And mists, although they may appear
Less lovely than those sun-bright hours,
To Nature are as dear.

176

VIII

The lavish luxury of Spring,
When flowers are bursting into bloom,
And tints upon an insect's wing
Out-rival Ormus' loom;
The Summer's radiance;—Autumn's sway
Of matron majesty and grace;
Enchant in turn, then pass away,
And give stern Winter place.

IX

Thus is it with the outward frame
Of wondrous Nature; changing still,
And yet unchangeably the same —
Obedient to his will,
Alike in every season shown,
As each proclaims its author's praise;
Nor is this silent in the tone
Of Winter's stormiest days.

177

X

No; in the voice of mighty winds,
At intervals to stillness aw'd,
Has it not seem'd, to thoughtful minds,
A spirit was abroad?
And thus the same Eternal Power,
Though viewless unto mortal eye,
When skies are bright, when tempests lower
Is still for ever nigh!

XI

Is there no lesson taught to man
By that which unto outward sense,
Through vast creation's matchless plan,
Proclaims benevolence?
Shall man distrust his goodness, who,
Spring after spring, with vital breath,
Revives the universe anew,
Educing life from death?

178

XII

Say not within thy inmost soul,
When mental darkness veils its light,
And clouds, more dense than winter's, roll
Before the spirit's sight;
Say not that light will ne'er return;
That thou art of thy God forgot;
His lamp, within, may feebly burn,
Though thou discern'st it not.

XIII

To journey on from day to day,
Yet scarcely catch one trembling gleam
Of that more glorious sun, whose ray
Within, was joy supreme;
To feel the more than wintry chill
That orb's eclipse must ever bring,
Is but thy portion to fulfil
Of human suffering.

179

XIV

'Tis no peculiar lot of thine,
Thy sole, irrevocable doom;
Others have seen that splendour shine,
And seem to set in gloom:
The pang its absence now imparts,
Though painful it may be to bear,
Has been endur'd by aching hearts,
Endur'd without despair.

XV

But not in human strength alone!
The strength of man is weakness here;
His wisdom, follishness is shown
In trials so severe:
The outward ills, which all must feel,
Man's spirit may perhaps control;
God only can illume and heal
The darken'd, wounded soul.

180

XVI

His mercy never yet assign'd
(Can we conceive it could be so?)
To any one of human-kind
The cup of hopeless woe.
Life's goblet may, to some, be brimm'd
With more than wormwood's bitterness;
Much of its day by clouds be dimm'd;—
Yet all design'd to bless.

XVII

There is a sorrow—better far
Than noisy mirth which spurns control;
For Folly's raptures often mar
The flow of Pleasure's bowl:—
There is a sadness of the face,
By which the heart is better made;
A brook to bless the desert place,
A gourd to cast its shade.

181

XVIII

That brook, that gourd, are theirs alone,
Who meekly place their hopes on Him,
Before whose glory-circled throne
The stars of heaven are dim!
Then trust in God! his name thy tower!
Who by his own resistless might,
Can overcloud Life's brightest hour,—
Make days of darkness—light!