 | The poems of Mrs. Emma Catherine Embury |  |
TIME.
“We take no note of time but by its loss.”
Roll on, roll on, unfathomable Ocean!
On whose dark surface years are but as waves,
Bearing us onward with resistless motion,
Till in some deep abyss we find our graves;
While scarce a bubble breaks to mark the spot
Where sunk the bark that bore a mortal's lot.
On whose dark surface years are but as waves,
Bearing us onward with resistless motion,
Till in some deep abyss we find our graves;
While scarce a bubble breaks to mark the spot
Where sunk the bark that bore a mortal's lot.
What myriad heaps of countless wealth have lain
Entombed for centuries beneath thy tide!
Ruins of empires, kingdoms reared in vain,
Temples and palaces,—man's faith and pride;
Trophies of times when things of mortal birth
Amid their fellows walked like gods on earth.
Entombed for centuries beneath thy tide!
Ruins of empires, kingdoms reared in vain,
Temples and palaces,—man's faith and pride;
Trophies of times when things of mortal birth
Amid their fellows walked like gods on earth.
What is the lore of ages? Wrecks upthrown,
Torn fragments of the wealth thou hast despoiled,
Records of nations to our race unknown—
Men who, like us, once lived, and joyed, and toiled,
Yet whom as men we know not, for their kings
Alone flit by us—dim and shadowy things.
Torn fragments of the wealth thou hast despoiled,
162
Men who, like us, once lived, and joyed, and toiled,
Yet whom as men we know not, for their kings
Alone flit by us—dim and shadowy things.
And what is science but a beacon light,
Revolving ever in the same small round,
Shedding upon the wave a lustre bright,
Yet scarcely seen beyond its narrow bound?
While o'er the trackless waste its shifting ray
Too often leads the voyager astray.
Revolving ever in the same small round,
Shedding upon the wave a lustre bright,
Yet scarcely seen beyond its narrow bound?
While o'er the trackless waste its shifting ray
Too often leads the voyager astray.
What is philosophy? A chart ill traced,
An antique map drawn by Conjecture's skill;
There many a fair Utopia has graced
The vacant canvas which truth could not fill:
Like vain researches for the fount of youth
Must be man's quest for speculative truth.
An antique map drawn by Conjecture's skill;
There many a fair Utopia has graced
The vacant canvas which truth could not fill:
Like vain researches for the fount of youth
Must be man's quest for speculative truth.
Vainly, O Time, we seek thy mystic source,
We hope, believe, but nothing can we know;
And still more vainly would we trace thy course,
And learn what shore receives thy ebbs and flow.
We know it is Eternity—what then?
What is Eternity to finite men?
We hope, believe, but nothing can we know;
And still more vainly would we trace thy course,
And learn what shore receives thy ebbs and flow.
We know it is Eternity—what then?
What is Eternity to finite men?
Our faculties all “cabined, cribbed, confined,”
We bear earth's soil upon our spirit's wings,
And but by sensual images the mind
Such abstract fancies to its vision brings;
Not all a Newton's energy could teach
Our fettered souls infinitude to reach.
We bear earth's soil upon our spirit's wings,
And but by sensual images the mind
Such abstract fancies to its vision brings;
Not all a Newton's energy could teach
Our fettered souls infinitude to reach.
163
Years multiplied by years, till feeble thought
Grows dizzy—lost in calculation, maze,
Such are our vague imaginings; we've sought
Eternity, and found but length of days.
Not till we lay aside this weight of clay,
Can our dim sight bear truth's refulgent ray.
Grows dizzy—lost in calculation, maze,
Such are our vague imaginings; we've sought
Eternity, and found but length of days.
Not till we lay aside this weight of clay,
Can our dim sight bear truth's refulgent ray.
Ocean of Time! thy tiniest wavelet bears
To fatal wreck some richly laden bark:
O! but for that bright star in heaven which wears
A brighter glory when the storm grows dark,
But for the Star of Bethlehem, how should we
Direct our course o'er thy tempestuous sea?
To fatal wreck some richly laden bark:
O! but for that bright star in heaven which wears
A brighter glory when the storm grows dark,
But for the Star of Bethlehem, how should we
Direct our course o'er thy tempestuous sea?
| The poems of Mrs. Emma Catherine Embury | |