 | Dryburgh Abbey and other poems |  |
93
'TWAS YESTERDAY.
'Twas yesterday!—oh! solemn sound,
Heard oft as idle breath,
Yet, prophet-like, to all around
It speaks of woe and death!
A mourner by the Past it stands,
In mystic mantle of decay,—
Shrouds in the night of years its hands,
And grasps all life away!
Heard oft as idle breath,
Yet, prophet-like, to all around
It speaks of woe and death!
A mourner by the Past it stands,
In mystic mantle of decay,—
Shrouds in the night of years its hands,
And grasps all life away!
High from the boundless vault of time,
The stars of empire veer:
'Twas yesterday they beam'd sublime,
The mightiest in their sphere;
'Twas yesterday reveal'd to fate,
The rival crowns of centuries flown,
Show'd where a phantom sat in state,
Upon the Cæsar's throne.
The stars of empire veer:
'Twas yesterday they beam'd sublime,
The mightiest in their sphere;
'Twas yesterday reveal'd to fate,
The rival crowns of centuries flown,
Show'd where a phantom sat in state,
Upon the Cæsar's throne.
We hope,—but what we hope the shroud
Wraps from our weeping sight;
We aim at stars and clasp the cloud,—
Seek day, and find but night!
Ah! who with life's dread woes could cope,
If 'twere not for that Faith sublime,
Which sees the Ararat of Hope
Above the floods of time!
Wraps from our weeping sight;
We aim at stars and clasp the cloud,—
Seek day, and find but night!
94
If 'twere not for that Faith sublime,
Which sees the Ararat of Hope
Above the floods of time!
What, then, is yesterday?—a key
To wisdom most divine,—
It is the hall of memory,
Where Fame's brief trophies shine:
The spiritual home of things,
Where intellect immortal beams,
Which lends to thought its holiest wings,—
Inspires the noblest themes!
To wisdom most divine,—
It is the hall of memory,
Where Fame's brief trophies shine:
The spiritual home of things,
Where intellect immortal beams,
Which lends to thought its holiest wings,—
Inspires the noblest themes!
A drop, that mirrors forth a world,
Then mingles with the earth:
A star from Time's vast empire hurl'd,
Slow falling from its birth:
A presence with the sacred past,
To warn our spirits of delay,—
Which saith, “Proud man, to-day thou hast,
Use well thy little day!”
Then mingles with the earth:
A star from Time's vast empire hurl'd,
Slow falling from its birth:
A presence with the sacred past,
To warn our spirits of delay,—
Which saith, “Proud man, to-day thou hast,
Use well thy little day!”
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