Lyrical and other poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Our life is two-fold—and the after time,
The course, unvarying, which we must pursue,
Lives in our full remembrance, 'till the hour
When Fate shall make the long expected change,
And give us that we dream of to enjoy!
The Traveller wakes at morning—let him mark
First at his rising, if the sun pursues,
His daily track unchanging—that he may
(A like resemblance) learn to trace his path
Thro' courses, which, nor earthly clog, nor bid,
When he has proved them worthy of himself,
Shall stay or fix as doubtful: So shall he,
After long travail in the time of trial,
Firm bearance of the buffettings of Fate,
And faithful, full acknowledgement of all,
The one, has providently given in store,
And grateful keeping, so direct himself,
That, when the minister of th' other life
Shall in his course of duty, wait upon him,
With his commission, which he cannot void,
And would not shrink from; He may render up
The duties of his charge with thankful heart;
Unquestion, join the caravan of death,
And mingle with the past, whose essence now,
Partaking of th' all pervading spirit,
Unshrinking from the survey, shall behold

The distant circumstance, the future view,
Unacted yet, on life's dark stage of cares!

So shall his bosom gladden him to find
His 'scape thus happy, as thus premature,
Ere other time had in its swift revolve,
Brought forth the mysteries, to him, that now
He sees unveiled, that have not yet their birth,
Save in infinitude—Time-known projected!

Ye may not scan the future, whilst ye still
Enjoy the present—since the after life,
That shuts the enjoyment of the former out
Alone can give it ye; ye die to live:
And in the wide survey that death affords,
Thus, indirect in giving birth to life,
The fathomless, unbounded, ye behold
Them all, yet feeling of their being none—
Partaking in your incorporeal life,
The scenes that ye survey; the sky, ye breathe,
And the eternal magnitude around,
Of which ye are a portion, and yet naught!

Time's born to-day; ye are distinct from all,
The innumerous like yourself, that float
On the dull mass around ye. Ye are born,
And time buds with ye: only, when ye leave
The wide association and admixture,
Of which ye are, and are not, it shall grow
Into another state of sustentation,
Fit to the sphere of which ye are a member,

Eternal as itself, yet void, unlike it,
As subject not to happiness or pain!

Yet in this earlier stage, when ye have don'd
The vesture of maturity, and proudly ris'n,
A fellow with the proudest, let your thought
Pre-eminent above the course dictation
Of worldlier passions, and the gust of sense,
Partake of that infinity alone,
Which surrounded, as ye are by rank mortality,
Ye feel in spirit still allied unto ye,
And ever in propinquity around;
Breathing rich incense from the other world,
That knows not the infirmities of life,
Of which ye are the semblance, and is free,
From all its doubts, deep pangs, corroding fears.

So shall ye emulate in thought and deed,
The ideal of the highest—till ye soar
Above the common stoop of apprehension,
And by extension of the innate mind
Assimilate yourself to Deity—mark not,
The lowlier spirit that would bid ye bow
In humbleness; in sackcloth, nor in ashes
Clothe your brow; and far less be your heart
A mingler in that grovelling of all,
That Deity itself has made to soar.
This, ye may not question not, since if your flight

Be with the loftiest—your soul will shrink
From aught that will impair its brighter glow,
Or dim it in the Heaven of Fame it seeks!

Yet be not proud—so that ye look around
With haught crest on your fellow, who may not
In that he has not striven, soar as proud
As in your lofty reachings: he can boast
Perchance, an equal fortune, inasmuch,
He that is lowly in his hearts desires,
And quelleth all his loftier aspirations,
Hast that, which in thy soarings thou may'st lack
Of peace and in content, and health of mind.

Science and Courage, Splendor, Pride and Wealth,
Of whom, Ambition in the wake of Fame,
Desires all men inherit, and impart,
Lineal and unimpaired to fostering years,
Percipient as the open love of rule,
And power unbounded—lofty for a time,
And rich in high perception, dense in one
Graceful as Ulysses, glorious as the gods
In plenitude of power, can outweigh
But little of the dark demands of death,
Who comes, and 'neath him these resolve to nought.

And what can pale Philosophy, that seeks
By midnight rambles thro' the fields of science
For the bleak ore of mind, that's seldom gain'd,
When gained, it's product but an earthly fame,
Of which he recks not, when his bones repose
'Neath the tall Pyramid, that crumbles too,
Even before it teaches its intent—Life is not life.
With wisdom, so does Life, teach of itself
Hourly—go search the stars—the wide
And fathomless waste of air—the deep blue
Of the far torrent; the continual roar
Of the volcano—from unmeasured depths
Rolling its volumes into light, to blast!
Search the mysteries of the yet unthought on,
Track the wide tempest and the fiery globe,
That rides portentous poised upon the air,
Filling with omens dire—what will it reck thee,
E'en though thou searchest thro' thy hidden nature.

Will Mind pre-eminent—unbounded skill,
And wisdom far above the ways of men
And known but to be wonder'd at—repay
For all the countless moments spent in pain,
O'erstudy, deep hard watching, burning brow,
Contracted o'er the taper—when all around
Is nursed in quiet slumber—dreams of Peace,
And innate happiness?

Mind has its compensation. Ideal worlds,
Where spirits of departed myriads roam,
Are in the Poet's fancy. He surveys
In every leaf—each waving tree or bush,
The form of some enjoyment. Ariels come
Obedient to his beck; and sylphlike forms,
Whose breath a softer, dearer incense gives,
Than eastern realms—whose lips are form'd to love,
And breathe the tales of lovers, and whose eye
Might fix the roving God, himself, are there
To mingle with his musings, and to fill
His heart with hope, and nerve him to success.

Then go, and if ye strike a middle sphere,
Deny the extreme, and in an even garb,
Sit down beneath the pleasant palm, and mark
(So that thou lend'st thine aid) the woes of man,
Thy fellow and thyself. Yet, rest thee not
In listlessness, lest old Time should come
With harsher looks than words, and ye shall go
Sad, with unwilling step, to seek thy home.
Then shall the giver of thy benefits,
Reproach thee with thy stewardship, and say
Thou didst forget—didst throw thyself laggard,
In soft luxuriance down, and slept, and dreamt
Thy profitless life away.