University of Virginia Library

LA JEUNESSE DE L'ESPRIT.

To him, whose spirit drinks the fading hues
Of life's young sunlight, and o'er parted bliss
Lingers, whose odour's wafted on the wings
Of hurrying years, 'tis pleasant to recur
To scenes unvisited except in dreams;
For meditation sage, and solemn thought,
And true philosophy, attend the steps
Of him, who, weary of the noise, and glare,
And dark hypocrisy, and hoary guilt,
And gloomy mirth, and madness of this life,
In silence treads the hallowed temple where
His heart first offered up its sacrifice.
Familiar as the face well known for years,
That ever beams with kindness, all the scene
Expands before him—all his wonted haunts
The reverend oak, the bosky brook, the hill,
The vale, the mansion of his birth, the room
Where long he took his slumbers—all are here;
But where are they who shared his blisses? where
The eyes that glowed in welcome? Closed in death!
Voices whose music fell upon the heart
Like dew on budding spring flowers? Heard afar,
Perchance, by those who love them not—their tone
Of joyance changed to hollow notes of wo
Betokening wasted hearts, affections scorned,
And spirits crushed by years of servitude.
The places where true friends held kind discourse?
Empty—or, worse, filled by the stranger stern,
Who turns upon the wanderer a cold eye,
And questions his intent in colder words.
What doth he there amid the unconcerned,
The heartlessly unmannered? Not with them
Holds he communion; with his only friends,
The sunny rivers, the perpetual hills,
The groves of beauty, and the places still
'Mid forest-depths, he interweaves his thoughts,
And bows his spirit down before the shrine
Where stand the faded images of dreams
That faintly gild the darkness of his fate.
What is and what has been! A fiery waste
Parts them asunder, which we pass to find
A desert in our Eden. What we are
And what we have been!—'tis an awful thought,
That seldom should o'ershadow us. The friends
We loved in earlier years, and those who wear
The mask of policy, and suit their hearts
To the fiendlike expediency of men!
Dare not the contrast of the sunny brow
And the deep treachery that lurks beneath
The bosom of the wordly wise! We die
With every hour that leads us far away
From the bright youth of life—the bloomy days
When love is innocence, and hope is bliss,
And the warm heart is its own heaven—Alas!
The quivering pulses of our bosoms tell
Alone the blessedness that hath been ours,
But never must be more! O'er the dark bowers
Of memory gleams a glorious light, to veil
The pallid features of the dead who sleep
In silence there. In melancholy minds
There is a subtle chain, that, link by link,
Gathers, as life wanes by, connecting all
The events of being with the reigning thoughts
And feelings of our childhood; there they cling,
Through all the cares and woes and sufferings,
That wait upon us here; and every glance
At other days is guided by that chain,
Till every link is numbered; then we rest
Upon the sunny spot where life began,
And half forget how far the chain extends.
'Mid contemplation of our being's morn
And all the clouds that chequered it, arise
Deep thoughts and solemn feelings—from the heart
Gushing like sunny waters from their spring.
Before his eye, whose life counts many years,
Oft will the grave be opened to receive
The young, the beautiful, the loved and dear.
Yet, 'mid the waste of brighter hopes than his,
The desolation of far happier loves,
He stands unwounded, and the hurtling darts
Fall harmless at his side! And why? Pause there,
And think, vain infidel! why art thou spared?
Hath Nature wise reversed her laws for thee?—
The sun shone on thee with unnatural light?—
The elements foregone their rage, and heaven
Assumed a smiling aspect at thy wish?
The speech prophetic and the hope intense
Of the forgotten had a prouder tone,
A loftier range, than thine; where are they now?
Earth had its charms for them—the love of power,
The spell of praise, the glory of young hearts,
And the green fields, the pictured skies, the gush
Of summer rivulets, came o'er their souls
Like visions and sweet music. What availed
The soaring mind, the feeling heart, the eye
Of beauty, and the thought of power? The dust
Lies quietly upon them—and the turf,
In dark luxuriance, waves above their rest!
Thou hast been spared—consider well for what!