Madmoments: or First Verseattempts By a Bornnatural. Addressed to the Lightheaded of Society at Large, by Henry Ellison |
 | I. |
| II. |
 | Madmoments: or First Verseattempts |  |
ON READING TWO SONNETS ONE WRIT IN YOUTH, AND THE OTHER IN AGE, ON THE SAME SUBJECT.
1.
Strange contrast! here the Painter, Youth, has been123
Scattered as lavishly as Morningdews,
And scarce more lasting— there, hardby is seen
The sour Critic, Age, with wrinkled brow,
Cavilling at the Painter's phantasy,
At disproportioned lights and shades, that throw
And crowd all parts at once upon the Eye;
That fill the foreground with a motley show,
And leave the background furnished scantily.
2.
And thou vain Caviller, art thou more wise,In thy selfwisdom, purchased at so dear,
So costly a price, than he whose ready Tear
Gush'd at a thought of beauty, and whose Eyes
Gleamed with the undimmed light of Paradise,
When of a Summereve, on his rapt Ear,
The still sphcremusic from afar came clear
As with a welcome? Oh! a deep truth lies
In these first gushings of the unsoiled Heart,
Thus struggling to remount to its springhead;
Yea! a far deeper than the schoolmen's art
Or Afteryears can teach us, when instead
Of these high Efforts of our Divine Part,
Earth's weight lies on us, 'till our Hearts be dead!
3.
Till we possess but that which we can seeAnd touch; and have no faith in anything
Save what in Sense's Compass we can bring.
Deeming all else a juggling mystery;
As if the Slave to Doubt were really free!
'Tis then the nightingale in vain shall sing,
He has no Lore for us— the Poesy
Of Earth is dead; no divine Echos ring!
Then cavil not Oldage, that Youth in dreams
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Not yet enslaved; for that which only seems,
May one Day be; and that which is, shall die
And perish quite away! then when youth's beams
Are spent, keep still the embers holily!
4.
Thriceblessed memories of youth! sweet hours,O'er which e'en Age's timedimmed eyes might shed
Some Joydrops still: for tho' the fountainhead
Seem dry within our Hearts and all the flowers
Be withered round its brink, yet are its powers
But gathered back into the soul, not dead!
And tho' no more in lavish stream it spread,
Making the Earth as fair as Edensbowers,
Yet gushes it within unfailingly;
A well of living Waters, where we slake
A heavenly thirst; ye days, from which we take
A promise and a pledge that may not die,
Be with us still, oh still for your sweet sake,
Let us keep pure the shrine of Memory!
| Madmoments: or First Verseattempts | |