University of Virginia Library

THE ETONIAN'S ADIEU.

As some poor exile, on the boundless main,
Quits shores and skies he ne'er shall see again,
Casting, as darts his shallop from the strand,
One lingering glance upon his native land;
Then distant marks the elemental war,
The billows' shock, the ocean's thundering roar;
No hopes allay the tumult of his mind,
No joys efface the joys he leaves behind.
In vain for him the breeze inviting sounds,
In vain the gallant vessel proudly bounds
Triumphant o'er the waters; with that coast
His every joy, his every hope, is lost.
So as I quit my sacred mother's breast,
To change for toils and cares this seat of rest,
No glowing prospects gild the dismal scene,
No glimpse of peace the clouds of grief between.
In vain for me the sun, the skies, may shine:
The dream is past which made those pleasures mine.
The morn of life is o'er, the tints are flown,
Which made this earth a heaven all my own.
The joys of life are o'er, and what remain
To gather, save the sorrows and the pain?
The early friends of life already gone,
Some in the world to find new friends; but one
From long affection's arms forever torn,
Beyond the cold interminable bourne.
The manly form, the generous heart, is dust;
The sparkling eye is quenched, the voice I loved is hushed.
Henceforth I ne'er shall feel what I have felt,
Nor be what I have been; the blow is dealt
Which breaks the fairy visions of the mind,
And rends the chains which now no more can bind.
Time has fled quickly, since these ancient halls
Received me first within their classic walls;
Yet five whole years have rolled their train along,
A thought! a dream! the burthen of a song!
And now I am no more the careless child
Who played, and smiled, unconscious why I smiled;
For cares come thick upon me: yet I run
A course as vain as that which now is done.
And I shall sport no more beneath the shade,
Where oft at eve my boyish limbs were laid;
My days are done, by river and by plain,
In thy haunts, sweet Etonia; if again
I stand among thy children, other hands
Will wield the bat, or lead the watery bands:
My name is not among them, nor will be—
Eton has many a worthier son than me,
But none more true, if love may fill the place
Of nobler deeds, and of a prouder race.
Yet, though the loftiest titles man can give
To birth, or learning, in thy tablets live,
Not to the learned, or to the proud alone,
The arduous path to glory's height is shown:
Hence springs the hope to earn myself a name,
And add, Etonia, to thy scroll of fame.
Hence, if in after time some scanty bays
May crown my toils with undeserved praise,
Though brighter jewels in thy chaplet shine,
My boast shall be that one, at least, is mine.