Madeline With other poems and parables: By Thomas Gordon Hake |
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| XXI. | XXI.
ON THE SEASONS OF LIFE. |
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 | Madeline |  |
202
XXI. ON THE SEASONS OF LIFE.
A trembling compass points to age,
The winter's shortest day;
Four seasons all our heritage;
Worn-out the beaten way.
The winter's shortest day;
Four seasons all our heritage;
Worn-out the beaten way.
Though long the spring-tide, short its hours;
The years alone are slow;
For joy an endless torrent pours
Upon the soul below.
And lesser floods bring forth their joys,
Which nothing clogs, and nothing cloys.
The years alone are slow;
For joy an endless torrent pours
Upon the soul below.
And lesser floods bring forth their joys,
Which nothing clogs, and nothing cloys.
A season swelled with many springs,
A bud-time free from blight,
That flies without the fabled wings
Which help the angels' flight.
To thee, fair youth, all this is sent,
Pastime scarce changed in changing spent.
A bud-time free from blight,
That flies without the fabled wings
Which help the angels' flight.
To thee, fair youth, all this is sent,
Pastime scarce changed in changing spent.
203
To thee the burning heavens are cool,
The faded forests green;
The blast that furrows up the pool
Not to thy senses keen.
To thee the iceberg is a sun
Reflecting days but just begun.
The faded forests green;
The blast that furrows up the pool
Not to thy senses keen.
To thee the iceberg is a sun
Reflecting days but just begun.
On happy hours thou look'st not back
As never to return,
Drawn in the meteor's hurried track,
Thy onward light to burn,
To waste on summer's coming gleam
The fancy of a truant dream.
As never to return,
Drawn in the meteor's hurried track,
Thy onward light to burn,
To waste on summer's coming gleam
The fancy of a truant dream.
Nature, to thee scarce human yet!
The winter in her rear,
Where on the soul the ice must set
So hard that it will bear!
Where, as the ploughed-up flood congeals
A gelid wind its slumber seals.
The winter in her rear,
Where on the soul the ice must set
So hard that it will bear!
Where, as the ploughed-up flood congeals
A gelid wind its slumber seals.
Unlike thy days, lascivious Spring,
That give the bud its scope;
That suns, and showers, and rainbows bring,
But not as once to hope.
Season of many springs in one
That seemed eternal, and was gone.
That give the bud its scope;
That suns, and showers, and rainbows bring,
But not as once to hope.
Season of many springs in one
That seemed eternal, and was gone.
204
EPODE.
Let man through every stage of being wend,
Like empty barges down the river's slope,
Untimely must his tour of pleasure end—
With rock and shoal alternately to cope.
Like empty barges down the river's slope,
Untimely must his tour of pleasure end—
With rock and shoal alternately to cope.
Deem life a battle-field as pampas gay,
Whose hues break lances with the laughing sun:
A game of chess which god and demon play,
To both of lucky moves an equal run.
Whose hues break lances with the laughing sun:
A game of chess which god and demon play,
To both of lucky moves an equal run.
| Madeline | |