 | War-lyrics and other poems |  |
178
“EVEN THIS WILL PASS AWAY.”
Yes, all will pass away—
This sad and weary day,
That lingers on my path, so dull and cold,
Will find its home at last
In the returnless Past,
And join its unregretted mates of old:
This sad and weary day,
That lingers on my path, so dull and cold,
Will find its home at last
In the returnless Past,
And join its unregretted mates of old:
And on some other morn
A brighter Babe be born—
Haply, more gentle in its task than ye,
Children of loveless Time,
All withered in your prime,
Dark Hours, that long have borne me company!
A brighter Babe be born—
Haply, more gentle in its task than ye,
Children of loveless Time,
All withered in your prime,
Dark Hours, that long have borne me company!
Hath it not erst been said,
(As I, methinks, have read
In some old chronicle with moral fraught,)
How one, in days gone by,
'Mid torments doomed to die—
Consoled him with the stern, yet trusty thought,
(As I, methinks, have read
In some old chronicle with moral fraught,)
How one, in days gone by,
'Mid torments doomed to die—
Consoled him with the stern, yet trusty thought,
180
That, when of one long sun
The bitter sands had run,
Hate would have done its worst, its last on him—
Each nerve, so quick with pain,
Could never thrill again—
Nor one pang more convulse each wretched limb.
The bitter sands had run,
Hate would have done its worst, its last on him—
Each nerve, so quick with pain,
Could never thrill again—
Nor one pang more convulse each wretched limb.
We know not what there is,
Perchance akin to this,
Which nerves us to endure the Life we bear—
Borne, like the Pilgrim's load,
O'er many a weary road,
Through many a path of sorrow, sin and care.
Perchance akin to this,
Which nerves us to endure the Life we bear—
Borne, like the Pilgrim's load,
O'er many a weary road,
Through many a path of sorrow, sin and care.
And oh! like him could I,
These wanderings all past by,
Lay down the weight wherewith our footsteps err—
How little recked by me
Its resting-place would be,
Though 'twere, like his, a wayside sepulchre.
These wanderings all past by,
Lay down the weight wherewith our footsteps err—
How little recked by me
Its resting-place would be,
Though 'twere, like his, a wayside sepulchre.
December, 1844.
| War-lyrics and other poems | |