University of Virginia Library

AN HOUR OF SADNESS.

I'm weary of this false and hollow world!
Its brightest smile is but the fickle light
That leads the 'wildered traveller astray;
Its dearest joys are but vain morning dreams;
Its very mirth is madness; and the man
Who seems most blest, is only he who best
Can feign, and 'neath a smiling brow conceal
The bosom's secret anguish. There is nought
On earth but sorrow. Where can mortals look
For happiness or peace? Shall we seek fame,
Ambition, knowledge, love? Alas! in vain.
The laurel wreath is stained with human blood,
Or blighted by the feverish breath of him
Who won it by the sacrifice of health.
What can ambition give? Vain man may tread
Upon the neck of thousands, and become
A god among the nations, yet his deeds
Will be forgotten. Knowledge, too, is but
The painful guerdon of protracted toil.
And thou, Love! though thine altar is in heaven,
Thy flame is burning in the hearts of those
That worship thee on earth. O it is sad
That aught so sweet should bring such desolation—
That woman, too, that gentle, timid woman
Should oft'nest be the victim. When success
Has crowned thy votaries, they have found the prize
Scarce worth the pain and anguish that it cost;
Or, if unkindly early hope is crost,
The end is death or madness.
All, all is sorrow! Ask the aged man
By his enjoyments to compute his years;
Will he then say that he can count three-score?
O! happy they who die ere they awake
From their illusive dream of joy. Men weep
Upon the early tomb which haply saved
Its tenant from a thousand living deaths;
And happy they whom the first grief can kill—
Who are not doomed to drag the lengthened chain
Of wearisome existence—but to live
Among the selfish beings of this earth,
As one whose thoughts dwell elsewhere—to endure
The secret workings of a restless spirit
That once aspired to higher, nobler things;
To bear the desolation of a heart
Broken by early suffering, and to feel
That though we would not live, we cannot die!
This, this is sorrow, yet it may be borne.
For many painful years, e'en in life's spring
It may have been endured, and yet the lip
May wear a smile. But 'tis a bitter mirth
That seems to mock itself; the eye may beam,
The cheek still brightly glow, but on the brow
Are furrows which the hand of Time ne'er planted—
Traces of scathing grief. And this is life!
This is the life to which fond man will cling
And spend his years in toil, yet vainly strive
'Gainst friendly Death. O doom me not, sweet Heaven,
To waste, Prometheus-like, away, but grant
To me thy kindliest boon—an early grave!