 | Poems and Songs by E. H. B. [i.e. E. H. Bickersteth] |  |
141
FRAGMENT.
Our life is one long childhood—and each toy
Palls on our sick'ning fancy—all our joy
Is but imperfect—something, something still
Lacks the full power to gratify our will.
From the down pillow to the lowly sod,
Man wars with man—with nature—and with God:
Subdues whole cities, yet still wants the art
To quell that enemy the human heart.
Ambition, envy, pride, all rule by turns;
With hope it lingers, and with love it burns:
That master passion, whose impetuous wave,
Spurning controul, still haunts the lowly grave.
Palls on our sick'ning fancy—all our joy
Is but imperfect—something, something still
Lacks the full power to gratify our will.
From the down pillow to the lowly sod,
Man wars with man—with nature—and with God:
Subdues whole cities, yet still wants the art
To quell that enemy the human heart.
Ambition, envy, pride, all rule by turns;
With hope it lingers, and with love it burns:
That master passion, whose impetuous wave,
Spurning controul, still haunts the lowly grave.
Bring—bring my lyre—perchance, its tones may wing
My soul to mount and quaff the living spring
Fast by the throne of God—where holy flowers
For ever bloom mid amaranthine bowers;
Where hope ne'er droops nor dies, nor love destroys
By mortal frailty all its highest joys;
Where pride ne'er scorns, nor envy disallows
The bays which wreathe around another's brows;
Where red ambition enters not, nor mars
The silver lustre of the moonēd stars.
My soul to mount and quaff the living spring
Fast by the throne of God—where holy flowers
For ever bloom mid amaranthine bowers;
Where hope ne'er droops nor dies, nor love destroys
By mortal frailty all its highest joys;
142
The bays which wreathe around another's brows;
Where red ambition enters not, nor mars
The silver lustre of the moonēd stars.
Companion—solace—hail! Oh! soothe my breast
With sounds low breathing of a purer rest.
Though earthly ties may sever and decay,
Though tears and darkness mark my lonely way,
My lyre shall still some echoing notes prolong,
And teach my soul to lose itself in song;
This frame may quiver, but my spirit's free;
Adieu! false world—yet not adieu to thee!
With sounds low breathing of a purer rest.
Though earthly ties may sever and decay,
Though tears and darkness mark my lonely way,
My lyre shall still some echoing notes prolong,
And teach my soul to lose itself in song;
This frame may quiver, but my spirit's free;
Adieu! false world—yet not adieu to thee!
| Poems and Songs by E. H. B. [i.e. E. H. Bickersteth] | |