 | Poems |  |
162
MNEMOSYNE.
O memory! sad, unwilling dream of time!Impelled to muse on energies sublime,
And heaven-born exploits, blasted by the breath
Of malice, and consigned to infamy and death.
Storehouse of time! thou palace of the soul!
Whose treasures flow, and heed not mind's control.
O painful-pleasing wand'rer, are the scenes,
From which wild fancy peerless treasure gleans,
Thou dost array before the mental eye,
And deck in terror, or in ecstasy;
Here towers the warrior with his plumed crest,
And in his country's noble feats is blest—
The high-souled patriot, who contemns the gold,
By which his empire is betrayed and sold—
The saint, the sage, the sophist—all who stand
Enrolled in honour,—wield the flashing brand,
Or wrap around the philosophic stole,
Rush in review before the dazzled sight,
And, like a mantle flung from heaven's own height
O'er golden fields, and sunny meads, they shed
A charm around the vista of the dead.
But virtue, honour, and a stainless worth,
Like the bright fruitage in its vernal birth,
Display their envied glories, and awake
The whelming blast—and vengeful torrents break
The heaven-raised battlement; on the ruined scene
We gaze, unconscious of the pomp that's been.
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And ev'ry glorious, or ignoble clime,
Virtue has wandered to her meed unknown,
And base born finesse has usurped the throne;
Devotion to the nation's noblest weal
Been crowned with iron on the writhing wheel,
The sage's lore demanded being's bane,
And ruin's panders have enjoyed the strain
Of triumph from the mercenary bard;
Thus justice, wisdom, meet the world's reward.
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