Thomas Cole's poetry the collected poems of America's foremost painter of the Hudson River School reflecting his feelings for nature and the romantic spirit of the Nineteenth Century |
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73.
The March of Time
Hark! I heard the tread of Time
O'er heaven's ether fields sublime;
Through the portals of the Past;
Where the stars by God were cast
O'er the illimitable vast!
O'er heaven's ether fields sublime;
Through the portals of the Past;
Where the stars by God were cast
O'er the illimitable vast!
Onward! Onward! Yet he strides;
Nations clinging to his sides
Kingdoms crushed, he tramples o'er:
Fame's shrill trumpet—War's deep roar
Blast-like rise—then speak no more.
Nations clinging to his sides
Kingdoms crushed, he tramples o'er:
Fame's shrill trumpet—War's deep roar
Blast-like rise—then speak no more.
Lo he nears us! Like a cloud,
Which the trembling sea doth shroud,
Darkly folding every flower
Of our life; Hope, Love and Power
Ah! he grasps the present hour!
Which the trembling sea doth shroud,
Darkly folding every flower
Of our life; Hope, Love and Power
Ah! he grasps the present hour!
Grasps it—it is withering
Hangs a misty faded thing
In his girdle seen no more
But by deeds that stud it o'er
These shall mark it evermore.
Hangs a misty faded thing
In his girdle seen no more
But by deeds that stud it o'er
These shall mark it evermore.
On he passes swift as fear
Hiding each faint struggling year
Neath his pinion's shadowy fold
All that sky and earth do hold.
Much which man may not behold.
Hiding each faint struggling year
Neath his pinion's shadowy fold
All that sky and earth do hold.
Much which man may not behold.
Lo! beneath his mantle dark
Grim, a spectre pallid, stark
Clingeth round him like a sheath
Powerful; yet devoid of breath—
Throwing darts! 'Tis death! 'Tis death.
Grim, a spectre pallid, stark
Clingeth round him like a sheath
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Throwing darts! 'Tis death! 'Tis death.
Stop the ruffian Time! Lay hold!
Hath Heaven nor Earth power so bold!
As to meet his strength midway,
Wrest from him the precious prey
And the Tyrant-Robber slay.
Hath Heaven nor Earth power so bold!
As to meet his strength midway,
Wrest from him the precious prey
And the Tyrant-Robber slay.
Struggle not my foolish soul
Let Time's garments round thee roll.
Time God's servant think no scorn,
Gathers up the sheaths of corn
Which the spectre Death hath shorn.
Let Time's garments round thee roll.
Time God's servant think no scorn,
Gathers up the sheaths of corn
Which the spectre Death hath shorn.
And anon shall One appear
Brighter than the Morning Star
Who shall smite that Spectre frore.
Time shall, clasped by death no more,
Take a new name—Evermore.
Brighter than the Morning Star
Who shall smite that Spectre frore.
Time shall, clasped by death no more,
Take a new name—Evermore.
1843
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