 | Selected poems by William J. Grayson |  |
145
LIFE
Along the lapse of years I look,
From childhood on to feeble age,
And as in some old pictured book
I read and turn page after page.
Few are the joys recorded there;
Its sorrows mark each passing year.
From childhood on to feeble age,
And as in some old pictured book
I read and turn page after page.
Few are the joys recorded there;
Its sorrows mark each passing year.
If childhood has its sunny hours,
As poets say, I knew them not;
Or if they came, the fruits and flowers
Withered and wasted are forgot.
The briers and thorns—the sneer, the taunt
And harsh rebuke—my memory haunt.
As poets say, I knew them not;
Or if they came, the fruits and flowers
Withered and wasted are forgot.
The briers and thorns—the sneer, the taunt
And harsh rebuke—my memory haunt.
Youth's sanguine moments brightly gleam
With hope—for me the hope how brief!
How soon the world dispelled the dream
And turned the promised bliss to grief!
Cares like a murky mist to shame
And mar life's morning-glory came.
With hope—for me the hope how brief!
How soon the world dispelled the dream
And turned the promised bliss to grief!
Cares like a murky mist to shame
And mar life's morning-glory came.
Its brilliant hours how illy spent;
Its opportunities unused;
Buried or lost the talent lent,
Neglected idly or abused;
Truth, knowledge, virtue's priceless prize
Forgotten in delusive lies!
Its opportunities unused;
Buried or lost the talent lent,
Neglected idly or abused;
Truth, knowledge, virtue's priceless prize
Forgotten in delusive lies!
146
The man's pursuits, the costlier toys,
The scheme for fortune, power or place—
I tried them all—deceptive joys—
Immortal natures they debase;
The fairest gaud the schemers know,
To spirit worlds how mean a show!
The scheme for fortune, power or place—
I tried them all—deceptive joys—
Immortal natures they debase;
The fairest gaud the schemers know,
To spirit worlds how mean a show!
And household pleasures—how they fly!
Death leaves his blighting footsteps there—
The fevered pulse, the glazing eye,
The pallid face so cold and drear.
These, these, from memory never part,
But burn their traces on the heart.
Death leaves his blighting footsteps there—
The fevered pulse, the glazing eye,
The pallid face so cold and drear.
These, these, from memory never part,
But burn their traces on the heart.
Even as I write, mine eye and ear
Recount the pang of pain, the groan,
The cry it wrings my breast to hear,
The parting strife, the dying moan—
O that a father's love could give
A ransom that his son might live!
Recount the pang of pain, the groan,
The cry it wrings my breast to hear,
The parting strife, the dying moan—
O that a father's love could give
A ransom that his son might live!
He's gone; but if to riper years
The parent's pride and promise grow,
Do joys succeed to anxious cares,
Does time the expected boon bestow?
Excess and vice the harvest blight
And shroud in clouds the morning light.
The parent's pride and promise grow,
Do joys succeed to anxious cares,
Does time the expected boon bestow?
Excess and vice the harvest blight
And shroud in clouds the morning light.
147
The coarse debauch, the reeking bowl,
The reeling step, the bloated face
Debase the mind, imbrute the soul,
And blast each youthful bloom and grace.
What are the wrecks of stormy seas
To wrecks of hopes and hearts like these?
The reeling step, the bloated face
Debase the mind, imbrute the soul,
And blast each youthful bloom and grace.
What are the wrecks of stormy seas
To wrecks of hopes and hearts like these?
What, though not all be blighted so,
What, in the flock, if ninety-nine
Escape or brave the noisome foe
And all their treasured love be mine,
Still, still, in ceaseless sorrow tost
I miss and mourn the one that's lost.
What, in the flock, if ninety-nine
Escape or brave the noisome foe
And all their treasured love be mine,
Still, still, in ceaseless sorrow tost
I miss and mourn the one that's lost.
The mind's the body's waning powers,
The faith transformed to cold distrust,
The cheerless sun, the languid hours,
The buds of hope all turned to dust—
These fill the last dull dreary page,
The record of declining age.
The faith transformed to cold distrust,
The cheerless sun, the languid hours,
The buds of hope all turned to dust—
These fill the last dull dreary page,
The record of declining age.
Ah! who would tread his steps again
In life's deluding, changeful way
Of thorns and flowers, of joy and pain?
The thorns endure, the flowers decay.
Foreknown the coming weal and woe,
What light could hope herself bestow?
In life's deluding, changeful way
Of thorns and flowers, of joy and pain?
The thorns endure, the flowers decay.
Foreknown the coming weal and woe,
What light could hope herself bestow?
148
Thy better light, O God! reveal;
Thy grace vouchsafe, Thy peace impart.
Thou givest alone the balm to heal
The spirit bruised, the wounded heart.
Beyond the grave, above the skies,
I lift my weary thoughts and eyes.
Thy grace vouchsafe, Thy peace impart.
Thou givest alone the balm to heal
The spirit bruised, the wounded heart.
Beyond the grave, above the skies,
I lift my weary thoughts and eyes.
Yet mine on earth one boon of Heaven
To soften grief, to lighten care;
The choicest gift to mortals given,
A loving heart to soothe and cheer,
Is mine—whate'er the ill may be
I closer cling, dear wife, to thee.
To soften grief, to lighten care;
The choicest gift to mortals given,
A loving heart to soothe and cheer,
Is mine—whate'er the ill may be
I closer cling, dear wife, to thee.
| Selected poems by William J. Grayson | |