 | The Poetical Works of Thomas Pringle |  |
161
LINES, WRITTEN ON HEARING OF THE DEATH OF AN EARLY FRIEND.
Was this sad fate the only fruit
Of thy brief, feverish life's pursuit?
To gain—for years in travel worn—
For dangers braved and troubles borne—
For all, 'mid mankind's conflicts rude,
That chills the soul or chafes the blood—
For wounded feeling's bitter smart—
For scenes that wring or sear the heart—
To gain—in a drear distant clime,
A nameless grave before thy prime!
Of thy brief, feverish life's pursuit?
To gain—for years in travel worn—
For dangers braved and troubles borne—
For all, 'mid mankind's conflicts rude,
That chills the soul or chafes the blood—
For wounded feeling's bitter smart—
For scenes that wring or sear the heart—
To gain—in a drear distant clime,
A nameless grave before thy prime!
Was this—was this the bridal bed
To which thy cruel mistress led—
The Fiend Ambition? she who brings
A chaplet wreathed with scorpion's stings
To crown her lovers!—she whose waist
And bosom are with snakes enlaced!
Who scatters wide her victim's bones
O'er blighting swamps—o'er burning zones—
Where on the stranger's loveless bier,
No friend shall drop a parting tear,
Nor sister come to watch and weep,
And break with sobs the silence deep!
To which thy cruel mistress led—
The Fiend Ambition? she who brings
A chaplet wreathed with scorpion's stings
To crown her lovers!—she whose waist
And bosom are with snakes enlaced!
Who scatters wide her victim's bones
O'er blighting swamps—o'er burning zones—
Where on the stranger's loveless bier,
No friend shall drop a parting tear,
Nor sister come to watch and weep,
And break with sobs the silence deep!
Yet why o'er thy untimely urn
With vain regret thus weakly mourn?
Struck by the bolt that levels all,
What recks it how or where we fall?
Are they not blest, the early dead,
Wherever fate their pall may spread?
More blest than those whom long decay
Detains—slow lingering by the way,
Without a wish to wake the soul;
Yet shuddering at the dreary goal
To which with viewless pace they steal,
Dragged on by Time's resistless wheel,
Watching each early comrade sink,
Till they upon the desert brink
Stand desolate!
With vain regret thus weakly mourn?
162
What recks it how or where we fall?
Are they not blest, the early dead,
Wherever fate their pall may spread?
More blest than those whom long decay
Detains—slow lingering by the way,
Without a wish to wake the soul;
Yet shuddering at the dreary goal
To which with viewless pace they steal,
Dragged on by Time's resistless wheel,
Watching each early comrade sink,
Till they upon the desert brink
Stand desolate!
Ay! there are hours
When life's horizon round us lowers—
When yet afresh the wounds we feel
Which Time may close, but cannot heal,
That recklessly we seek relief
By draining e'en the dregs of grief,
(The bitter dregs which human pride
Infuses in affliction's tide,)
Repiningly upbraid the doom
Which on our loved ones shuts the tomb,
And half accuse long-suffering fate
That opens not for us its gate.
When life's horizon round us lowers—
When yet afresh the wounds we feel
Which Time may close, but cannot heal,
That recklessly we seek relief
By draining e'en the dregs of grief,
(The bitter dregs which human pride
Infuses in affliction's tide,)
Repiningly upbraid the doom
Which on our loved ones shuts the tomb,
And half accuse long-suffering fate
That opens not for us its gate.
This morbid mood, then, shall we nurse,
That in affliction finds a curse?
Shall we, when Providence destroys,
Like Jonah's gourd, our cherished joys,
The wisdom frowardly arraign
That warps our web of life with pain?
No! let us with a pious trust,
Though bent by sorrow to the dust,
Confide, while we submissive bow,
That He will cheer who chastens now;
And to a loftier faith give scope,
Not mourn as those who have no hope.
That in affliction finds a curse?
Shall we, when Providence destroys,
Like Jonah's gourd, our cherished joys,
The wisdom frowardly arraign
That warps our web of life with pain?
No! let us with a pious trust,
Though bent by sorrow to the dust,
163
That He will cheer who chastens now;
And to a loftier faith give scope,
Not mourn as those who have no hope.
1813.
| The Poetical Works of Thomas Pringle | |