 | Poems, original and translated |  |
THE PROPHECY OF YOUTH.
When, in the pilgrimage of life,—
Its morning dreams, its midday turmoil past,—
Led by the gentle hand of Time,
We come at last,
With no unwilling step, to climb
The sunset-mountain's brow;
Far from the din and dust of earth's bewildering strife,
And, rapt in musing wonder, now
Amidst the sober glories stand
Of memory's autumnal land,
And rest our toil-worn feet
From the long march; and for the noonday's heat
Bathe in cool splendors of the evening sky;—
Then, as the clearer eye,
Purged from ambition's fire
And fever-heat of passionate desire,
Looks back, with wistful gaze,
To the fair hours and haunts of youthful days,—
How near, indeed, how near,
In that serene and tranquil atmosphere,
Those far-off morning fields of unsoiled life appear!
Nay, 'tis not all a dream!
The fair illusion veils a fairer truth!
The visionary gleam,
The roseate glow that lie
Before fond Memory's eye,
On the dew-spangled landscape of our youth,
Come from a land within, that prophesies
A morning yet to rise
Upon the soul in these immortal skies,
That glow where Hope and Memory, hand in hand,
Hail their celestial home, their common fatherland.
Its morning dreams, its midday turmoil past,—
Led by the gentle hand of Time,
We come at last,
With no unwilling step, to climb
The sunset-mountain's brow;
Far from the din and dust of earth's bewildering strife,
And, rapt in musing wonder, now
Amidst the sober glories stand
Of memory's autumnal land,
And rest our toil-worn feet
From the long march; and for the noonday's heat
Bathe in cool splendors of the evening sky;—
Then, as the clearer eye,
Purged from ambition's fire
And fever-heat of passionate desire,
Looks back, with wistful gaze,
To the fair hours and haunts of youthful days,—
How near, indeed, how near,
In that serene and tranquil atmosphere,
Those far-off morning fields of unsoiled life appear!
158
The fair illusion veils a fairer truth!
The visionary gleam,
The roseate glow that lie
Before fond Memory's eye,
On the dew-spangled landscape of our youth,
Come from a land within, that prophesies
A morning yet to rise
Upon the soul in these immortal skies,
That glow where Hope and Memory, hand in hand,
Hail their celestial home, their common fatherland.
True! in the morning of our days,
Hope's rainbow in the west appears,
And evening's backward glancing rays,
Shining perchance through Sorrow's tears,
Light up its image in the east;
But still, as on the past we gaze,
The memory of a hope, at least,
Life's evening hour consoles and cheers.
Hope's rainbow in the west appears,
And evening's backward glancing rays,
Shining perchance through Sorrow's tears,
Light up its image in the east;
But still, as on the past we gaze,
The memory of a hope, at least,
Life's evening hour consoles and cheers.
Yea, the remembered dreams of long ago,
As angels, cheer us on with hope's warm glow;
The morning visions fair, that hovered round
Our wayward steps on youth's enchanted ground,
Come back again, and stand revealed anew
In clearer light to manhood's calmer view.
As angels, cheer us on with hope's warm glow;
The morning visions fair, that hovered round
Our wayward steps on youth's enchanted ground,
Come back again, and stand revealed anew
In clearer light to manhood's calmer view.
O mystery of our being! Endless praise
To Him who links in one our fleeting days!
Whose spirit bids, in mystic union sweet,
Boyhood and manhood, age and childhood, meet.
Then, brothers, gladly own, forevermore,
We are but children on the murmuring shore
Of that vast, mystic deep, whence saint and sage
Have caught inspiring airs in every age,—
Being's immense, unfathomable sea;
Whose waters whisper of eternity,—
Whence never wing or line of human thought
Tidings of bottom or of bound have brought;—
Ethereal ocean, on whose boundless breast
All worlds and souls forever ride and rest.
To Him who links in one our fleeting days!
Whose spirit bids, in mystic union sweet,
Boyhood and manhood, age and childhood, meet.
159
We are but children on the murmuring shore
Of that vast, mystic deep, whence saint and sage
Have caught inspiring airs in every age,—
Being's immense, unfathomable sea;
Whose waters whisper of eternity,—
Whence never wing or line of human thought
Tidings of bottom or of bound have brought;—
Ethereal ocean, on whose boundless breast
All worlds and souls forever ride and rest.
| Poems, original and translated | |