Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Oh thou, whate'er thou art, whose name
Is Terror's trumpet-call!
The knell of everything but Fame
On this terrestrial ball—
Thou undefined and shadowy Thing,
Whose ever-haunting dusky wing
Hangs dimly over all,—
A moment sweep thy clouds away
And stand revealed in open day!

I've wondered oft what thou might'st be,
Since first my life began,
And tried as well to picture thee
As Doubt and Darkness can—
And now, e'er yet we close, thou Foe,
Whom all engage, yet none o'erthrow,
I would thy features scan;
And measure well thy breadth and height,
Like combatants before they fight.

How oft doth charmed childhood read,
In Araby's bright lore,
Of dangers dark to him decreed,
And woes unfelt before,
Whose venturous arm should rashly bold
Some mystic portal dare unfold;
Yet ardour to explore
The secrets deep he there might read,
Hath nerved him to the desperate deed.

And thus, there seems so much to know
Which only thou canst teach,
Such rest from pain, disgust, and woe,
Which none but thou can'st reach,
Thou should'st to Reason's eye appear
A thing to hope for, not to fear,
A blessing to beseech;
And man should joy to see thee nigh,
And deem it liberty to die.

Why was this burning thirst for Fame
Into my breast instilled?
Why was I born with hope and aim
Which ne'er could be fulfilled?
Would I were dead!—for then my breast
Would find at least a little rest,

This throbbing heart be stilled—
Again—again—would I were dead,
That I might rest this weary head!

And oft, perhaps, on silent night,
When all is still and lone,
The watery moonbeams, silvery bright,
May rest on the cold stone;
And I no other tears will crave,
No other mourners o'er my grave,
Forgotten and unknown!
There weeds may grow, there worms may creep,
But nought shall break that stirless sleep.

April, 1830.

A WISH.

TO A YOUNG FRIEND.

The Lark who sings in the morning air
Is happy as happy may be;
On wings of joy he rises there—
May'st thou be as happy as he!

The Bee in the stilly summer noon,
O'er the bright fields wanders free,
And begs of each flower a honied boon—
May'st thou be as happy as he!

And when all the sky is dimly chill,
And there's nothing but snow to see,
At the window the Robin sings happily still—
May'st thou be as happy as he!

And when the fire is blazing bright,
As at Christmas is wont to be,
The Cricket full blithely chirps at night—
May'st thou be as happy as he!

And so may to thee summer, winter, and spring,
Measured many and many times o'er,
In this bright world as much of pure happiness bring,
Till a brighter shall lure thee to more!

December, 1829.

IN AN ALBUM.

You bid me write, what must appear,
Amid these pages bright and gay,
A tear, where all are ‘wreathed smiles,’
A ‘cloud upon a sunny day.’

Is it that fond remembrance here
May find forgotten scenes again—
As cherished locks of hair remind
Of those who're past all joy and pain?

If so, should gladness light my life
And bright my future fortunes be,
This record will but raise a smile,
A sneer, in those who coldly see.

But if misfortune dim my days,
And storm arise and cloud appear,
Perhaps it might obtain a sigh—
If not too much to ask—a tear.

Then why require my lonely grief
O'er others joy its shade to throw?
Why bid me ask a happier heart
To share in private selfish woe?

Christmas, 1829.