 | Abaddon, the spirit of destruction ; and other poems |  |
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DESPONDENCY.
There is no bliss in being; all in vain
We toil and struggle here; in grief and pain
Born to a world of sufferance and of sin,
And doomed to woo what none can ever win,
Life is a weary burden, hard to bear,
Of dark offence and desolate despair—
A lingering helplessness—a quenchless thirst
To taste and yet a shuddering o'er the worst.
The diamond dawn of being—its blest hours
Of love and innocence—young budding flowers!
Its earliest pleasures, bursting into bloom,
Only to blossom o'er the chill dark tomb,
Soon fade and perish, and hope's rosy light
Throws lurid gloom o'er sorrow's wailing night,
Which shrouds the heart in such unmeasured woe
As they, who deeply feel, alone can know.
We toil and struggle here; in grief and pain
Born to a world of sufferance and of sin,
And doomed to woo what none can ever win,
Life is a weary burden, hard to bear,
Of dark offence and desolate despair—
A lingering helplessness—a quenchless thirst
To taste and yet a shuddering o'er the worst.
The diamond dawn of being—its blest hours
Of love and innocence—young budding flowers!
Its earliest pleasures, bursting into bloom,
Only to blossom o'er the chill dark tomb,
Soon fade and perish, and hope's rosy light
Throws lurid gloom o'er sorrow's wailing night,
Which shrouds the heart in such unmeasured woe
As they, who deeply feel, alone can know.
Oh, how the heart-pulse throbs with burning flush
When life's young feelings o'er the bosom gush,
And earth unfolds her glories to the eye,
And angel harps are heard along the sky,
At that sweet season when the spirit pours
Its starlight beauty o'er the eternal shores!
What radiant forms glide through each Eden grove,
Forms full of loveliness and bliss and love—
Ideal shapes from fancy's magic mould,
Never beheld when the warm heart grows cold,
And the wan hue of sickly thought doth spread
O'er living brows the image of the dead!
The glorious skies, where angels sing in praise,
Their unfurled pinions flashing heaven's own blaze;
The fair green earth—the vestibule of heaven,
Where spirits commune in the dusky even;
The wild lone main, with all its worlds beneath,
The dim mysterious palaces of death;
The joy of thought, the rainbow of the mind,
The silent rapture of a soul refined;
All cease to charm when want and woe assail
The shuddering spirit with their spectre wail,
E'en in the dayspring of confiding youth
When the pure bosom is the shrine of truth.
Lost in himself amid the false and vain,
Man looks abroad upon a world of pain
With the cold eye of unobservant scorn,
And wonders why this wretchedness was born.
When life's young feelings o'er the bosom gush,
And earth unfolds her glories to the eye,
And angel harps are heard along the sky,
At that sweet season when the spirit pours
Its starlight beauty o'er the eternal shores!
What radiant forms glide through each Eden grove,
Forms full of loveliness and bliss and love—
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Never beheld when the warm heart grows cold,
And the wan hue of sickly thought doth spread
O'er living brows the image of the dead!
The glorious skies, where angels sing in praise,
Their unfurled pinions flashing heaven's own blaze;
The fair green earth—the vestibule of heaven,
Where spirits commune in the dusky even;
The wild lone main, with all its worlds beneath,
The dim mysterious palaces of death;
The joy of thought, the rainbow of the mind,
The silent rapture of a soul refined;
All cease to charm when want and woe assail
The shuddering spirit with their spectre wail,
E'en in the dayspring of confiding youth
When the pure bosom is the shrine of truth.
Lost in himself amid the false and vain,
Man looks abroad upon a world of pain
With the cold eye of unobservant scorn,
And wonders why this wretchedness was born.
Oh, what is human hope? a viewless star,
That never shines upon us where we are;
A glimmering light, that, throned in other spheres,
Only reveals the darkness of our fears;
A world beyond all other worlds on high,
That mocks the gaze of every mortal eye;
A realm of dreams this life cannot fulfil,
Forever distant, wander where we will.
Oft and yet vainly hath my worn heart sighed
For joys that budded but to be denied;
And vain hath been my spirit's airy flight—
It fell from heaven in sorrow's troubled night,
And sunk below the common hopes of man—
Seared by the lightning of my being's ban.
The loftier triumphs of the human breast,
The proud ambition that can find no rest,
The rainbow joys that glitter but to die,
And love, our heaven or hell beneath the sky—
All—all are vain! the wide waste world is cursed
By ills and wrongs—the wildest and the worst.
That never shines upon us where we are;
A glimmering light, that, throned in other spheres,
Only reveals the darkness of our fears;
A world beyond all other worlds on high,
That mocks the gaze of every mortal eye;
A realm of dreams this life cannot fulfil,
Forever distant, wander where we will.
Oft and yet vainly hath my worn heart sighed
For joys that budded but to be denied;
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It fell from heaven in sorrow's troubled night,
And sunk below the common hopes of man—
Seared by the lightning of my being's ban.
The loftier triumphs of the human breast,
The proud ambition that can find no rest,
The rainbow joys that glitter but to die,
And love, our heaven or hell beneath the sky—
All—all are vain! the wide waste world is cursed
By ills and wrongs—the wildest and the worst.
Trust not in man! confide not in the best,
But lock thy counsels in thine own still breast!
He loves thee not whose venal voice proclaims
Vile paynim worship to dark Mammon's names;
He loves thee not who honours thee in pride
But to reject when fortune is denied;
He loves thee not, who, in a darkened day,
Leaves thee alone to track thy desert way,
Content to mutter—“O, I wish thee well!”
When earth seems opening to the nether hell.
Trust not in man! the wisest err in ill,
The greatest falter—and the human will
Grovels forever in the darkness cast
O'er life from the first sigh unto the last.
Friends are but phantoms in thy bitter need,
They counsel wisely while thy death-wounds bleed.
Love lives in deep delusions born of youth,
And dying in the dawn of awful truth;
Faith, like the raven from the ark sent forth,
Wanders unresting o'er the lonely earth;
And hope, earth's only happiness, doth nurse
Wild thoughts that centre in a burning curse!
Trust not in man! confide not in his faith!
His tongue breeds venom and his spirit—death.
But lock thy counsels in thine own still breast!
He loves thee not whose venal voice proclaims
Vile paynim worship to dark Mammon's names;
He loves thee not who honours thee in pride
But to reject when fortune is denied;
He loves thee not, who, in a darkened day,
Leaves thee alone to track thy desert way,
Content to mutter—“O, I wish thee well!”
When earth seems opening to the nether hell.
Trust not in man! the wisest err in ill,
The greatest falter—and the human will
Grovels forever in the darkness cast
O'er life from the first sigh unto the last.
Friends are but phantoms in thy bitter need,
They counsel wisely while thy death-wounds bleed.
Love lives in deep delusions born of youth,
And dying in the dawn of awful truth;
Faith, like the raven from the ark sent forth,
Wanders unresting o'er the lonely earth;
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Wild thoughts that centre in a burning curse!
Trust not in man! confide not in his faith!
His tongue breeds venom and his spirit—death.
There is no joy in life; its hopes and fears,
Its cold lip-smiles and unconsoling tears,
Its woes that wither and its toil that tires,
Its vain illusions and its false desires;
The keen pursuit, without a settled aim,
Of bootless power and unaccomplished fame;
The changes, chances, and unwitnessed tears,
The doubts that darken into endless fears;—
All pour the bitterness of wrath upon
The heart of man—earth's dust compounded son!
Alas! how poor is all he seeks to gain!
Clothed with bright pleasure but replete with pain.
Bright with the colours fond self-love bestows,
As mildew pictures like the morning rose;
Warm with the deep glow of the spirit's fire,
As the dead earth beneath the victim's pyre;
Love spreads its glory o'er our youth, but leaves
The bosom blasted, and alone it grieves.
Misfortune, fount of pride, in silence sears
The purest feelings of our earlier years,
And dread dependance o'er the high mind throws
The robe of Nessus; and our wants and woes
Blanche the fair cheek and furrow o'er the brow,
And make our progeny what we are now!
Its cold lip-smiles and unconsoling tears,
Its woes that wither and its toil that tires,
Its vain illusions and its false desires;
The keen pursuit, without a settled aim,
Of bootless power and unaccomplished fame;
The changes, chances, and unwitnessed tears,
The doubts that darken into endless fears;—
All pour the bitterness of wrath upon
The heart of man—earth's dust compounded son!
Alas! how poor is all he seeks to gain!
Clothed with bright pleasure but replete with pain.
Bright with the colours fond self-love bestows,
As mildew pictures like the morning rose;
Warm with the deep glow of the spirit's fire,
As the dead earth beneath the victim's pyre;
Love spreads its glory o'er our youth, but leaves
The bosom blasted, and alone it grieves.
Misfortune, fount of pride, in silence sears
The purest feelings of our earlier years,
And dread dependance o'er the high mind throws
The robe of Nessus; and our wants and woes
Blanche the fair cheek and furrow o'er the brow,
And make our progeny what we are now!
| Abaddon, the spirit of destruction ; and other poems | |