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Recaptured Rhymes

Being a Batch of Political and Other Fugitives Arrested and Brought to Book. By H. D. Traill

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THE AGE OF DESPAIR.
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134

THE AGE OF DESPAIR.

Drink deep of life ere death's unending calm
Enfold thee round.” So runs the dreary psalm,
Miscalled a song of joy, by poets sung,
From jesting Horace down to grave Khayyam.
We sing it now; but who that sings achieves
One hour's pure triumph over him who grieves?
Who can rejoice in summer, if his heart
Fore-hear the rustle of the falling leaves?
Vainly the farce of gaiety is played;
Death smiles sardonic on the poor parade;
Nor can our hollow laughters exorcise
That spectre whom the old-world revellers laid.

135

The rose they wreathed around the careless head,
The wine they poured, the perfumes that they shed,
The eyes that smiled on them, the lips they pressed,
For us what are they? Faded, vapid, dead!
Dead is for us the rose we know must die;
Long ere we drain the goblet it is dry;
And, even as we kiss, the distant grave
Chills the warm lip and dims the lustrous eye!
Too far our race has journeyed from its birth;
Too far Death casts his shadow o'er the earth.
Ah! what remains to strengthen and support
Our hearts, since they have lost the trick of mirth,
The stay of fortitude? The lofty pride
Wherewith the sages of the Porch denied
That pain and death are evils, and proclaimed
Lawful the exit of the suicide?

136

Alas, not so! No Stoic calm is ours;
We dread the thorns who joy not in the flowers.
We dare not breathe the mountain-air of Pain,
Droop as we may in Pleasure's stifling bowers.
What profits it, if here and there we see
A spirit nerved by trust in God's decree,
Who fronts the grave in firmness of the faith
Taught by the Carpenter of Galilee?
Who needs not wine nor roses, lute nor lyre,
Scorns life, or quits it by the gate of fire,
Erect and fearless—what is that to us
Who hold him for the dupe of vain desire?
Can we who wake enjoy the dreamer's dream?
Will the parched treeless waste less hideous seem
Because there shines before some foolish eyes
Mirage of waving wood and silver stream?

137

Ah, miserable race! Too weak to bear,
Too sad for mirth, too sceptical for prayer!
Surely on you the Scripture is fulfilled,
To bid the mountains cover your despair!