Randolph a novel |
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 | Randolph |  |
201
AMBITION.[1]
I've loved to hear the war-horn cry;
And panted at the drum's deep roll;
And held my breath, when, flaming high,
I've seen our starry banners fly,
As, challenging the haughty sky,
They went, like battle, o'er my soul:
For I was so ambitious then,
I burned to be—the slave of men.
I've stood and seen the morning light—
A standard swaying far and free;
And loved it, like the conquering flight
Of angels, floating wide and bright
Above the storm, above the fight
Where nations warred for Liberty;
And thought I heard the battle cry
Of trumpets in the hollow sky:
I've sailed upon the dull blue deep,
And shouted to the eaglet soaring;
And hung me from a rocking steep,
When all but spirits were asleep;
And O, my very soul would leap,
To hear the gallant waters roaring!
For every sound and shape of strife,
To me was but the breath of life:
But, I am strangely altered now;
I love no more the bugle voice—
The rushing wave—the plunging prow
The mountain, with his clouded brow—
The thunder, when the blue skies bow,
And all the sons of God rejoice—
I've learned to dream of tears and sighs,
And shadowy hair, and timid eyes.
I've loved to hear the war-horn cry;
And panted at the drum's deep roll;
And held my breath, when, flaming high,
I've seen our starry banners fly,
As, challenging the haughty sky,
They went, like battle, o'er my soul:
For I was so ambitious then,
I burned to be—the slave of men.
I've stood and seen the morning light—
A standard swaying far and free;
And loved it, like the conquering flight
Of angels, floating wide and bright
Above the storm, above the fight
Where nations warred for Liberty;
And thought I heard the battle cry
Of trumpets in the hollow sky:
I've sailed upon the dull blue deep,
And shouted to the eaglet soaring;
And hung me from a rocking steep,
When all but spirits were asleep;
And O, my very soul would leap,
To hear the gallant waters roaring!
For every sound and shape of strife,
To me was but the breath of life:
But, I am strangely altered now;
I love no more the bugle voice—
The rushing wave—the plunging prow
The mountain, with his clouded brow—
The thunder, when the blue skies bow,
And all the sons of God rejoice—
I've learned to dream of tears and sighs,
And shadowy hair, and timid eyes.
| Randolph | |