 | The Poetical Works of Robert Montgomery |  |
A FADING SCENE.
A fading scene, a fading scene
Is this false world below;
And not a heart has ever been
Which hath not proved it so.
Is this false world below;
And not a heart has ever been
Which hath not proved it so.
The clouds are dying while we gaze
Upon them, young and warm;
And sweet flowers in the summer-rays
But perish while they charm.
Upon them, young and warm;
And sweet flowers in the summer-rays
But perish while they charm.
The trees that woo'd us as we pass'd
With many a leafy strain,
Bow, wither'd by autumnal blast,
When visited again.
With many a leafy strain,
Bow, wither'd by autumnal blast,
When visited again.
The music which the soul doth melt
Like magic from the skies,
Though sweetly-heard, and softly-felt,
In swiftest echo flies.
Like magic from the skies,
Though sweetly-heard, and softly-felt,
In swiftest echo flies.
Our pleasures are but fainting hues
Reflected o'er the waves;
Our glories,—they are phantom-views
Which lure us to our graves!
Reflected o'er the waves;
Our glories,—they are phantom-views
Which lure us to our graves!
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And Beauty,—see her 'mid the crowd
A night-queen in her bloom!
To-morrow, in her maiden shroud
A martyr for the tomb!
A night-queen in her bloom!
To-morrow, in her maiden shroud
A martyr for the tomb!
And Love,—how frequent does it mourn
For some remember'd scene;
Or, doom'd in darkness reft or lorn
To live on what hath been.
For some remember'd scene;
Or, doom'd in darkness reft or lorn
To live on what hath been.
And Friends,—alas, how few we find
That consecrate the name,
With glowing heart and generous mind,
To feed their hallow'd flame:
That consecrate the name,
With glowing heart and generous mind,
To feed their hallow'd flame:
But should there be some blessed one,
However sad or lone,
Whom dearly we can look upon
And feel such friend our own,
However sad or lone,
Whom dearly we can look upon
And feel such friend our own,
The iron wings of Fate unfold
And bear him far away:
Or else, we mourn him dead and cold
Companion of the clay.
And bear him far away:
Or else, we mourn him dead and cold
Companion of the clay.
Oh, no! there's nothing on this earth
We fashion, or we feel,
But death is mingled with its birth
And sorrow with its weal.
We fashion, or we feel,
But death is mingled with its birth
And sorrow with its weal.
Then, hail the hour of glorious doom!
That wafts my soul away
To regions radiant with the bloom
Of everlasting day.
That wafts my soul away
To regions radiant with the bloom
Of everlasting day.
| The Poetical Works of Robert Montgomery | |