 | My Mind and its Thoughts, in Sketches, Fragments, and Essays |  |
SECOND ODE TO TIME.
Sire of the silver locks! to whom
Creation's crowding myriads come!
With pleading eye, and pouring tear,
Besieging oft thy heedless ear;
With adulation bending low,
And smoothing o'er thy furrowed brow;
While senseless age, with bleachened hairs,
Demands a lengthened lease of years,
From thee, flushed hectic looks for health,
From thee, pale avarice grasps at wealth,
From thee ambition dreams of boundless power;
Creation's crowding myriads come!
With pleading eye, and pouring tear,
Besieging oft thy heedless ear;
With adulation bending low,
And smoothing o'er thy furrowed brow;
While senseless age, with bleachened hairs,
Demands a lengthened lease of years,
From thee, flushed hectic looks for health,
From thee, pale avarice grasps at wealth,
From thee ambition dreams of boundless power;
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The prisoner waits thy aid to set him free,
The Chymist yields his crucible to thee;
And on thy wings the Poet hopes to soar.
Even I, my vain petition raise,
In all the melody of praise—
But not for wealth, nor power, nor fame,
Would invocate thy fearful name:
Let wealth his joyless nothings keep—
Ambition gain his world—and weep.—
And on the chymist may'st thou pour
Like fabled Jove, a golden shower:
Still may the pining prisoner find,
A Howard's cares have made thee kind.
The Chymist yields his crucible to thee;
And on thy wings the Poet hopes to soar.
Even I, my vain petition raise,
In all the melody of praise—
But not for wealth, nor power, nor fame,
Would invocate thy fearful name:
Let wealth his joyless nothings keep—
Ambition gain his world—and weep.—
And on the chymist may'st thou pour
Like fabled Jove, a golden shower:
Still may the pining prisoner find,
A Howard's cares have made thee kind.
Nor would the lowly muse implore,
Thy latest, best regard,
Since from her grief-consoling power,
Ascends each wished reward;
But ah! thy sharpest scythe display,
To sweep this shadowy form away,
Ere cold the narrowing mind appear,
And closed the portals of the ear:
Ere age shall every glance controul,
That speaks the language of the soul:
Or even one anguish'd sense depart,
Which rends the concave of the heart.
Which bids each suffering fibre glow,
To agony's excess,
Or gives this raptured breast to know
Reflected happiness.
Ah! yet the sweeping scythe display,
Ere these full locks have turned to grey,
Ere this slight form to thee shall bend,
O let me to the tomb descend!
Then memory shall delight to trace,
Some cherished worth, some fancied grace,
Thy latest, best regard,
Since from her grief-consoling power,
Ascends each wished reward;
But ah! thy sharpest scythe display,
To sweep this shadowy form away,
Ere cold the narrowing mind appear,
And closed the portals of the ear:
Ere age shall every glance controul,
That speaks the language of the soul:
Or even one anguish'd sense depart,
Which rends the concave of the heart.
Which bids each suffering fibre glow,
To agony's excess,
Or gives this raptured breast to know
Reflected happiness.
Ah! yet the sweeping scythe display,
Ere these full locks have turned to grey,
Ere this slight form to thee shall bend,
O let me to the tomb descend!
Then memory shall delight to trace,
Some cherished worth, some fancied grace,
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While bending o'er the slumbering clay,
Each conscious foible fades away.
There oft shall friendship's gentle form be found,
Heaving from breast of down the sacred sigh,
And fondly spelling out the piteous tale,
There shall chaste love his earliest woes bewail,
To the cold marble cling with burning eye,
Or wear with pilgrim-knee the insensate ground.
So may fresh laurels deck thy faded brow,
So may new realms thy ravaged fields adorn:
O'er the dead desert living streamlets flow,
And hope with carol'd hymn invite the morn:
So may thine age regain its golden prime,
When the charmed minstrel graced the monarch's board,
And with the lamb reclined the forest's lord,
While war's red triumphs from creation hurled,
Peace leans enamoured o'er the awakened world,
And not a tear-drop shames the eye of Time.
Each conscious foible fades away.
There oft shall friendship's gentle form be found,
Heaving from breast of down the sacred sigh,
And fondly spelling out the piteous tale,
There shall chaste love his earliest woes bewail,
To the cold marble cling with burning eye,
Or wear with pilgrim-knee the insensate ground.
So may fresh laurels deck thy faded brow,
So may new realms thy ravaged fields adorn:
O'er the dead desert living streamlets flow,
And hope with carol'd hymn invite the morn:
So may thine age regain its golden prime,
When the charmed minstrel graced the monarch's board,
And with the lamb reclined the forest's lord,
While war's red triumphs from creation hurled,
Peace leans enamoured o'er the awakened world,
And not a tear-drop shames the eye of Time.
| My Mind and its Thoughts, in Sketches, Fragments, and Essays | |