 | The poetical works of John Trumbull . |  |
165
ON THE VANITY OF YOUTHFUL EXPECTATIONS.
AN ELEGY.
December 1771.
Hence, gaudy Flattery, with thy siren song,
Thy fading laurels and thy trump of praise,
Thy magic glass, that cheats the wond'ring throng,
And bids vain men grow vainer, as they gaze!
Thy fading laurels and thy trump of praise,
Thy magic glass, that cheats the wond'ring throng,
And bids vain men grow vainer, as they gaze!
For what the gain, though nature have supplied
Her keenest nerves, to taste the stings of pain?
That fame how poor, that swells our baseless pride,
And shews the heights, our steps must ne'er attain?
Her keenest nerves, to taste the stings of pain?
That fame how poor, that swells our baseless pride,
And shews the heights, our steps must ne'er attain?
How vain those thoughts, that through creation rove,
Returning fraught with images of woe;
Those gifts how vain, that please not those we love,
With grief oppress'd, how small the gain—to know!
Returning fraught with images of woe;
Those gifts how vain, that please not those we love,
With grief oppress'd, how small the gain—to know!
And oh, that fate, in life's sequester'd shade
Had fix'd the limits of my silent way,
Far from the scenes in gilded pomp array'd,
Where hope and fame, but flatter, to betray.
Had fix'd the limits of my silent way,
Far from the scenes in gilded pomp array'd,
Where hope and fame, but flatter, to betray.
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The lark had call'd me at the birth of dawn,
My cheerful toils and rural sports to share;
Nor when mild evening glimmer'd on the lawn,
Had sleep been frighted by the voice of care.
My cheerful toils and rural sports to share;
Nor when mild evening glimmer'd on the lawn,
Had sleep been frighted by the voice of care.
So the soft flocks in harmless pastime stray,
Or sport in rapture on the flow'ry mead,
Enjoy the beauties of the vernal day,
And no sad prescience tells them they must bleed.
Or sport in rapture on the flow'ry mead,
Enjoy the beauties of the vernal day,
And no sad prescience tells them they must bleed.
Then wild ambition ne'er had swell'd my heart,
Nor had my steps pursued the road to fame;
Then ne'er had Slander raised th' envenomed dart,
Nor hung in vengeance o'er my hated name;
Nor had my steps pursued the road to fame;
Then ne'er had Slander raised th' envenomed dart,
Nor hung in vengeance o'er my hated name;
Nor dreams of bliss, that never must be mine,
Urged the fond tear or raised the bursting sigh;
Nor tend'rest pangs had bid my soul repine,
Nor torture warn'd me, that my hopes must die.
Urged the fond tear or raised the bursting sigh;
Nor tend'rest pangs had bid my soul repine,
Nor torture warn'd me, that my hopes must die.
Farewell, ye visions of the youthful breast,
The boast of genius and the pride of praise,
Gay pleasure's charms by fairy fancy dress'd,
The patriot's honours and the poet's bays.
The boast of genius and the pride of praise,
Gay pleasure's charms by fairy fancy dress'd,
The patriot's honours and the poet's bays.
Vain Hope adieu! thou dear deluding cheat,
Whose magic charm can burst the bands of pain;
By thee decoy'd, we clasp the gay deceit,
And hail the dawn of future bliss, in vain.
Whose magic charm can burst the bands of pain;
By thee decoy'd, we clasp the gay deceit,
And hail the dawn of future bliss, in vain.
167
Come, Sadness, come, mild sister of Despair,
The helpless suff'rer's last support and friend,
Lead to those scenes, that sooth the wretch's care,
Where life's false joys, and life itself must end.
The helpless suff'rer's last support and friend,
Lead to those scenes, that sooth the wretch's care,
Where life's false joys, and life itself must end.
Well pleased I wander o'er the hallow'd ground,
Where Death in horror holds his dread domain,
When night sits gloomy in th' ethereal round,
And swimming vapors cloud the dreary plain.
Where Death in horror holds his dread domain,
When night sits gloomy in th' ethereal round,
And swimming vapors cloud the dreary plain.
Ye Ghosts, the tenants of the evening skies,
That glide obscure along the dusky vale,
Enrobed in mists I see your forms arise;
I hear your voices sounding in the gale!
That glide obscure along the dusky vale,
Enrobed in mists I see your forms arise;
I hear your voices sounding in the gale!
Of life ye speak, and life's fantastic toys,
How vain the wish, that grasps at things below,
How disappointment lours on all our joys,
And hope bequeaths the legacy of woe.
How vain the wish, that grasps at things below,
How disappointment lours on all our joys,
And hope bequeaths the legacy of woe.
Ye too, perhaps, while youth supplied its beam,
On fancy's pinions soaring to the sky,
Fed your deluded thoughts, with many a dream
Of love and fame and future scenes of joy.
On fancy's pinions soaring to the sky,
Fed your deluded thoughts, with many a dream
Of love and fame and future scenes of joy.
Like yours, how soon our empty years shall fade,
Past, like the vapors, that in clouds decay,
Past, like the forms that fleet along the shade—
Ourselves as worthless and as vain as they!
Past, like the vapors, that in clouds decay,
Past, like the forms that fleet along the shade—
Ourselves as worthless and as vain as they!
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Here the kind haven greets our weary sail,
When the rude voyage of troubled life is o'er,
Safe from the stormy blast, the faithless gale,
The gulphs that threaten and the waves that roar.
When the rude voyage of troubled life is o'er,
Safe from the stormy blast, the faithless gale,
The gulphs that threaten and the waves that roar.
The heart no more the pains of love shall share,
Nor tort'ring grief the wayward mind enslave;
Through toilworn years fatigued with restless care,
Peace sought in vain, awaits us in the grave:
Nor tort'ring grief the wayward mind enslave;
Through toilworn years fatigued with restless care,
Peace sought in vain, awaits us in the grave:
Nor peace alone. Death breaks the sullen gloom,
That dims the portals of celestial day,
Bids the free soul her nobler powers assume,
And wing from woes her heaven directed way.
That dims the portals of celestial day,
Bids the free soul her nobler powers assume,
And wing from woes her heaven directed way.
| The poetical works of John Trumbull . | |