 | Poems (1859) |  |
220
THE VANITY OF HUMAN AFFAIRS.
The horse, the ass, can crop the grass,
And on the dewy mountains sleep,
Then toil away the summer's day,—
They have not learn'd like man to weep.
And on the dewy mountains sleep,
Then toil away the summer's day,—
They have not learn'd like man to weep.
No friends to turn and make them mourn;
No wants but Nature's hands supply;
No souls of fire make them aspire,
Or labour after vanity.
No wants but Nature's hands supply;
No souls of fire make them aspire,
Or labour after vanity.
When tempests rise, and all the skies
Are shrouded in a stormy vest,
Within the deep the fishes sleep;
The thunders cannot them molest.
Are shrouded in a stormy vest,
Within the deep the fishes sleep;
The thunders cannot them molest.
221
No silver there is counted dear,
O'er rubies carelessly they glide;
Though diamonds blaze, they never gaze
On gems or wealth beneath the tide.
O'er rubies carelessly they glide;
Though diamonds blaze, they never gaze
On gems or wealth beneath the tide.
The feather'd fowls, devoid of souls,
Sing cheerful on the bending spray;
And, when oppress'd, they go to rest,
Or fan the clouds, and soar away.
Sing cheerful on the bending spray;
And, when oppress'd, they go to rest,
Or fan the clouds, and soar away.
In ignorance the rustics dance,
And laugh and sing devoid of care;
Though sorrows come, there is no room
Within their breasts for dark despair.
And laugh and sing devoid of care;
Though sorrows come, there is no room
Within their breasts for dark despair.
But though the share of anxious care
Sinks deepest in the feeling breast;
When raptures rise all sorrow flies,
And in my cot I then am blest.
Sinks deepest in the feeling breast;
When raptures rise all sorrow flies,
And in my cot I then am blest.
Fierce fighting hosts, grim fancied ghosts,
And Nature in her every form;
The storm at peace, or when the seas
Wave their white mantles to the storm,
And Nature in her every form;
The storm at peace, or when the seas
Wave their white mantles to the storm,
I see, though here; yet from my sphere
My spirit soars on rapture's wings;
My harp I take, its chords awake,
And sweep the chorus o'er the strings.
My spirit soars on rapture's wings;
My harp I take, its chords awake,
And sweep the chorus o'er the strings.
| Poems (1859) | |