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Madeline

With other poems and parables: By Thomas Gordon Hake
Hake, Thomas Gordon (1809-1895)

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MADELINE.
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THE WORLD'S EPITAPH.
 I. 
I. ON ART.
 II. 
II. ON MUSIC.
 III. 
III. ON POETRY.
 IV. 
IV. ON THE STORM OF LIFE.
 V. 
V. ON THE RAINBOW.
 VI. 
VI. ON THE SANCTUARY.
 VII. 
VII. ON NATURE.
 VIII. 
VIII. ON TIME.
 IX. 
IX. ON THE FUTURE.
 X. 
X. ON THE SOUL.
 XI. 
XI. ON THE SOUL.
 XII. 
XII. ON GLORY.
 XIII. 
XIII. ON PEACE.
 XIV. 
XIV. ON THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW.
 XV. 
XV. ON GENIUS.
 XVI. 
XVI. ON DEPARTING PEACE.
 XVII. 
XVII. ON NATURE.
 XVIII. 
XVIII. ON LIFE.
 XIX. 
XIX. ON HOPE.
 XX. 
XX. ON THOUGHT.
 XXI. 
XXI. ON THE SEASONS OF LIFE.
 XXII. 
XXII. ON PASSION.
 XXIII. 
XXIII. ON THE NUPTIALS.
 XXIV. 
XXIV. ON THE SIREN.
 XXV. 
XXV. ON THE IMAGE.
 XXVI. 
XXVI. ON THE INFANT AT THE BREAST.
 XXVII. 
XXVII. ON THE WIDOW.
 XXVIII. 
XXVIII. ON PITY.
 XXIX. 
XXIX. ON THE BEREAVED.
 XXX. 
XXX. ON EARLY DEATH.
 XXXI. 
XXXI. ON THE DESERTED.
 XXXII. 
XXXII. ON DISSIPATED YOUTH.
 XXXIII. 
XXXIII. ON CONSCIENCE.
 XXXIV. 
XXXIV. ON SLUMBER.
 XXXV. 
XXXV. ON THE PILLOW OF THE WRETCHED.
 XXXVI. 
XXXVI. ON A MOTHER.
 XXXVII. 
XXXVII. ON THE OUTCAST.
 XXXVIII. 
XXXVIII. ON CHARITY.
 XXXIX. 
XXXIX. ON THE SAINT.
 XL. 
XL. ON THE SISTER OF MERCY.
 XLI. 
XLI. ON THE STATESMAN.
 XLII. 
XLII. ON OLD AGE.
 XLIII. 
XLIII. ON PENITENCE.
 XLIV. 
XLIV. ON MADNESS.
 XLV. 
XLV. ON DESPAIR.
 XLVI. 
XLVI. ON THE STRUGGLE FOR IMMORTALITY.
 XLVII. 
XLVII. ON MAN.
 XLVIII. 
XLVIII. ON FATE.
 XLIX. 
XLIX. ON DESPOTISM.
 L. 
L. ON PRIDE.
 LI. 
LI. ON THE PRISONER.
 LII. 
LII. ON REMORSE.
 LIII. 
LIII. ON HYPOCRISY.
 LIV. 
LIV. ON THE MASK.
 LV. 
LV. ON SELF-RIGHTEOUSNESS.
 LVI. 
LVI. ON CUNNING.
 LVII. 
LVII. ON BELIEF.
 LVIII. 
LVIII. ON THE DEATH-BED OF THE WISE.
 LIX. 
LIX. ON THE PHILOSOPHER.
 LX. 
LX. ON DELIRIUM.
 LXI. 
LXI. ON THE CLOSE OF LIFE.
 LXII. 
LXII. ON THE CHURCHYARD.
 LXIII. 
LXIII. ON THE TOMBS.
 LXIV. 
LXIV. ON DEATH.
 LXV. 
LXV. ON THE RESURGAM.

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196

XVI. ON DEPARTING PEACE.

STROPHE.

O Peace, why art thou ever on the wing
With plumes that wave like branches to the sky,
Thy bosom panting out the breeze of spring!
Make answer, tell me why?

ANTISTROPHE.

To take kind Nature to my fond embrace,
And share my lot with all,
For this my way I trace.
By thee repulsed, I disregard thy call.

STROPHE.

And never to restrain thy wayward flight,
Dear exile from this aching heart opprest?
Wilt thou no more alight
And set the weary soul of man at rest?

ANTISTROPHE.

I quit the earth and all the cares below,
But leaving, tap it gently with my wand;
That those who love me, and sustain the blow,
May follow to the distant land.
197

STROPHE.

Is not the heart, the stricken heart, thy home?
Bear not thy plumage from it to the skies!
Hither, relenting in thy anger, come,
Nor tear-like float before our longing eyes.
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