Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Lo yon declining winter sun,
Slow sinking from his labors done!
Far to the south he goes to rest
Below the verge-line of the west.
The hollow moaning of the blast,
The shades of evening deep'ning fast,
The exit of departing day,
Blend with my thoughts in grim array!
I see with retrospective eyes
A nameless mass of forms arise:—
The forms of long-departed years;
Of promised hopes and real fears;
Of mercies from a source on high;
Of friends were early called to die;
Of struggles with a stubborn heart,
Loath from its own self-will to part;
Of sorrows in their keenest form;
Of Fortune's wiles, and Folly's storm;
Of time mis-spent; of actions done,
Which Wisdom ever bade me shun;
Of frowns from His all-seeing eye
Who dwells in vast eternity—
Frowns, I may fear, deserved too well;
Of sounds from Fancy's whispering shell,
Which only sons of song may hear,
Soft, yet distinct—unseen, yet near.
But for the music of these last,
Mine eyes would sicken on the past!

Life, thou art like a pictured map
To school-boys, fostered in the lap

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Of Inexperience, who pore
With smiles its painted surface o'er.
In after years, to manhood grown,
They find that map a wildering one,
And while its brilliant colors fade,
See inequality and shade.
To me, thus far, thou 'rt but a song—
A poem, full of figures strong;
Some sweet as flowers in pleasant spring,
Others as stern as Death, grim king!

Long since, I 've given up the chase
For happiness—it flies apace,
And when I'd think to grasp the prize,
'T was a poor phantom in my eyes!
I 've summoned Hope to my relief,
And fondly cherished the belief
That Fortune would succeed my plans,
And no more harrass with her bans.

But human foresight, ah, how frail!
How oft our brightest prospects fail!
How oft the darling hope of years
Ends in a bitter flood of tears!
How oft the heart leaps with success,
To sink anon in heaviness!
False, fabled Hope! how oft we find
Thou 'rt but a phantom of the mind!
Or like to foot-prints in the snow,
That vanish in the sun, we know;
Or like the lightning's crinkling chain,
That dazzles, and is gone again;
Or like a meteor's transient gleam;
Or like the waking of a dream.

Why thus despond—why thus repine?
What grievous ills that are not mine

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Poor dwellers on this earth may feel!
My heart is sick—my senses reel!
My own woes, heavy tho' they are,
Fall on his head who well can bear;
And of whose strength has heav'n the care.
Tho' o'er his mind, in some dark hour,
They rush with ten-fold weight and power,
Like waters from a pent up stream,
Like busy morn on flowery dream,
And cause him for the while to wear
A saddened look and solemn air—
'T is like the tumult of a crowd,
Or like the passing of a cloud.

Ye nymphs of song, ye came to me
First in the tear of memory!
Never a bard of humble worth
But ill-star glimmered at his birth;
But Sorrow marked him from the hour
When first she found him in her power.
Yet to the sorrow-stricken bard
Imagination brings reward:
He sees, 'mid elements at war,
The god of thunder on his car;
Among the volumed clouds he finds
The hollow caverns of the winds;
He sees in Nature's varied face
A winning air, a mystic grace;
From every lost and lonely stream
He gathers thought, indicts a theme;
In every solemn wind he hears
The anthem of departed years;
He hears sweet minstrel voices sing
Beside the ever-bubbling spring—
Voices that speak behind that screen
Hides things eternal and unseen,

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Telling there is a better clime
Beyond the tear-dimmed shores of time.

Then world, oh, stormy world, farewell!
If long in thee I yet may dwell,
A target for thy missiles sharp,
Hear this wild raving of my harp!—
Your selfishness is past dispute;
Your friendship cold, your pity mute;
Your cares a dark revolving maze;
Your frowns a cold unmeaning gaze.
I 've drank your wormwood and your gall—
What else hast thou beside the pall?
Steeled is my heart to every ill,
At every surge of terror still.
Then roll your wildest, maddest wave!
Its roar I mock, the shock I brave.—
How calm the stillness of the grave!

Then world, oh, posting world, adieu!
If short my dwelling be with you,
Think not I leave you with regret—
No prisoner sick of freedom yet.
Death, I have seen thy pallid face,
Thou terror of a mortal race,
Contemplating my own;
I knew not what thou willed to do,
And cared as little as I knew;
Nor joyed to see thee gone!
Come when thou wilt, I trust thou 'lt find
A welcomer in me;
Give freedom to the shackled mind,
The prisoned soul set free.

Oh, life! to some much loved and dear,
To me a howling waste and drear,
A labyrinth of care!

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Forward I look, with anxious eye,
When I shall cast thee off and die,
And death's dark billows dare.
To him whose hope shall not betray,
Death brings a sweet repose;
He smiles to see thy weary day
Converging to a close.