University of Virginia Library

'Tis only when the heat and dust and toil
Of day have passed, my better heart can smile;
'Tis only when, in weariness and pain,
My task hath ceased to bind my dizzy brain,
That gentler thoughts and holier feelings come,
Like angel visitants, and guide me home—
Home to the hallowed temple of the mind,
Where Heaven's own music rolls upon the wind.
And, oh, while wandering mid the cold and low,
And mocking Mammon with a smile and bow,
While doomed to wear, o'er deep contempt, applause,
And crush my nature 'neath the world's vain laws,
How, like a lost child, seeking home once more,
My bosom brightens and my soul doth soar!
How, like the eagle of my native clime,
Genius aspires beyond the reach of Time!
Then, for a moment, glad oblivion throws
Its deep veil o'er my trials and my woes,
And trickling touches of a kindlier mood,
Like summer evening o'er the ancient wood,
Sooth evil passions, lull the heart to rest,
And blend the spirit with the pure and blest;
And I forget that Fortune is my foe,
And Man the fiend that reigns in human wo;
That lineal hatred o'er my childhood spread
The gloom, though not the slumber of the dead,
And yet prevails to sadden every scene
Where hope and love and loveliness have been.
All these pass from me, in the hour of pride,
Like smouldering wrecks down ocean's billowy tide.
With downcast eyes and tiar'd head declin'd,
His gold-wrought purple floating on the wind,
Gazing on valley, forest, stream and flood,
Against a rock the Persian monarch stood;
While, far below, his vassal millions lay
Like bristling tigers couchant for their prey,
Ardent as eagles, joyous as the lark
Whose music melts along the silvery dark,
Full of high hope of conquest, power and fame,—
That golden shroud for every mortal name!
And, as he gazed upon this pomp of power
One trump had summon'd to his palace bower,—
The haughty Despot wept that Time should cast
Their names, like ashes, on the fire-wing'd blast,
That, ere threescore of hurrying years went by,
His glorious millions,—each and all would die!
Each for himself, philosopher or bard,
Must toil uncheered and be his own reward
Through evils countless as the midnight dews—
The victim votary of the thriftless muse—
Till bursts the sun of Fame's rejoicing day,
And the hours blossom like the buds of May,
And Youth's dim hope outblazes like a star
High throned in heaven and gleaming from afar,
And flatterers crawl around the honoured one
Mocked when obscure and trampled when unknown!
What recks the world—stern, haughty, and austere—
From whose swoln eye slow drops the undried tear?
What recks the world if care and grief assail
The heart that suffers though it will not quail?
If doubt and darkness gather round his way,
Whose spirit revels in the light of day?
If, poor and friendless, Genius must submit
And pannier'd Dulness crush the choicest Wit?
If Earth becomes, by man's inhuman guile,
A hell, the deeper that the sunbeams smile?
And Mind, new lighted at the throne of God,
Darken and sink and mingle with the sod?
What recks the world, ere wakes the sun of Fame,
Who blights and execrates an unknown name?
Or who bands forth a menial miscreant host
And triumphs o'er archangel spirits lost?
—Dark are the shades that cloud thy mortal hours,
Poor lonely wanderer from elysian bowers,
And few the joys, earth's silken sons possess,
Light the wild horrors of thy wilderness!

As sable clouds along the evening sky
Glow with the glories of the sun's bright eye,
So the dull toils of daily life assume,
When Genius smiles, the beauty and the bloom
Of unseen realms, where holiest spirits sing
Mid the fair gardens of an endless spring.
Few and uncertain mid the cares of life,
The sin, the sorrow, and the hate and strife,
Are the brief hours devoted to the shrine
Of Love, whose purest worship is divine,
But these quick moments gladden and uplift,
And bear us through the subtlety and thrift,
The coldness, darkness, solitude and want,
The woes that wither though they cannot daunt,
Raise and refine the grovelling works of man,
And lead us back where Life in Love began.

Like summer showers, when wanes the burning day,
These hours of pride, athwart our weary way,
Gleam with a mellow gladness and repose,
That strengthen bleeding hearts to bear their woes,
And through all wrong and evil guide us on,
Though poor yet proud, though friendless not alone.
Then fruit and blossom mingle on each tree,
The soul soars gladly and the heart is free;
Soft airs float by with music on their wings,
And the lyre warbles from a thousand strings;
The heart's best feelings—all the joys of youth,
Dreams in the green-wood—hope and love and truth,
Thoughts by lone fountains, in their freshest bloom,
And chastened sorrow o'er affection's tomb—
All—all come back and win the soul afar
From earth's dark galley toil and rankling war,
Gild the dense gloom of error, fraud and sin,
And crown the altar of the heart within.

Yet, like wild lightning lifting, fold on fold,
Such awful gloom as wrapt the world of old,
To show how green and beautiful beneath
The earth lies, covered with the veil of death,
These high revealments mock the dazzled mind,
Leave, as they vanish, deeper gloom behind,
Melt the touch'd heart that should be proud and stern,
And, like frankincense gushing from an urn,
O'erpower the vision, that should settle on
The thin cold ashes of the dead alone.
With feelings purified and sense refined
And the veil'd glories of a mighty mind,
The Bard goes forth, from solitude sublime,
To meet and grapple with a world of crime,
Like a bright seraph in some distant star,
To feel his spirit with his fate at war,
To know his greatness and to bear the scorn
Of miscreant menials on the dunghill born,
To walk abroad, with radiant Genius crowned,
While crowded solitude hangs coldly round,
And seek, once more, the muse's lonely room,
And sigh to sink to slumber in the tomb!
Such is, hath been, will be the doom of minds
That cast their glories on the world's vain winds!