 | The harp and plow |  |
132
EPISTLE TO A DISTINGUISHED FRIEND.
You ask me if I never feel
A sadness o'er my spirit steal,
A sort of nameless grief?
My honored friend, an answer true
I'll render, and will hint to you
An inkling of relief:
A sadness o'er my spirit steal,
A sort of nameless grief?
My honored friend, an answer true
I'll render, and will hint to you
An inkling of relief:
A sadness o'er my spirit comes
At times, and shrouds it with the glooms
Of moonless, starless night;
I take a dark prophetic ken,
And envy gropers amongst men
Who never miss the light.
At times, and shrouds it with the glooms
Of moonless, starless night;
I take a dark prophetic ken,
And envy gropers amongst men
Who never miss the light.
Remembered scenes, remembered words
A sudden thrill of mem'ry's chords,
Ope to this sombre page;
One feels what he cannot portray,
But just contents himself to say,
‘Gone is the golden age!’
A sudden thrill of mem'ry's chords,
Ope to this sombre page;
One feels what he cannot portray,
But just contents himself to say,
‘Gone is the golden age!’
133
How thoughtless some of Adam's race!
Content their daily round to trace,
The present is their all;
They move on one dead level line,
Move, live, and die, and ‘make no sign;’
They neither climb nor—fall.
Content their daily round to trace,
The present is their all;
They move on one dead level line,
Move, live, and die, and ‘make no sign;’
They neither climb nor—fall.
And yet, compared with him they're blest,
Whose spirit never is at rest,
Whose game is high and low;
Whose heart's a harp of many strings
From which life's every action brings
The notes of joy or woe.
Whose spirit never is at rest,
Whose game is high and low;
Whose heart's a harp of many strings
From which life's every action brings
The notes of joy or woe.
We read that David in his haste
Called all men liars; haste at least
May be to me imputed;
If just to live and eat and drink
Is to be blest, we 'd better think
E'en brutes divinely suited.
Called all men liars; haste at least
May be to me imputed;
If just to live and eat and drink
Is to be blest, we 'd better think
E'en brutes divinely suited.
Now, friend, if honors and a name,
If joys of home and bays of fame,
Still leave you a ‘plucked pigeon;’
Permit me, drawing to a close,
To recommend for your repose
A trial of religion.
If joys of home and bays of fame,
Still leave you a ‘plucked pigeon;’
Permit me, drawing to a close,
To recommend for your repose
A trial of religion.
134
The truly pious man is blest;
To him life's storms that us molest
Are harmless in their fury;
Each trial he 's prepared to face,
Faith sits, the judge, upon his case,
Hope's angels are his jury.
To him life's storms that us molest
Are harmless in their fury;
Each trial he 's prepared to face,
Faith sits, the judge, upon his case,
Hope's angels are his jury.
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