 | Ballads and Other Poems |  |
359
THE GOLDEN AGE.
They had a lovely dream of old,
Of a pure age, an Age of Gold,
Wherein they neither bought nor sold:
A reign of bliss, ere care was known,
Or sin the seed of death had sown;
Ere human hearts had ached in sorrow,
Or human eyes had shed a tear;
Ere men grew careful for the morrow,
Or pined in hope, or drooped in fear;
Ere trusting faith had felt a blight,
Or love had aught to hide or shun;
Ere the day's thought, from morn to night,
Was but to keep what it had won;
Or the night's rest was broken from pain
Of weary count of loss and gain;
When all was kind and fair and pure,
And love and joy, like truth, were sure.
Of a pure age, an Age of Gold,
Wherein they neither bought nor sold:
A reign of bliss, ere care was known,
Or sin the seed of death had sown;
Ere human hearts had ached in sorrow,
Or human eyes had shed a tear;
Ere men grew careful for the morrow,
Or pined in hope, or drooped in fear;
Ere trusting faith had felt a blight,
Or love had aught to hide or shun;
Ere the day's thought, from morn to night,
Was but to keep what it had won;
Or the night's rest was broken from pain
Of weary count of loss and gain;
When all was kind and fair and pure,
And love and joy, like truth, were sure.
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Oh, Age of Gold! wert thou a vision
By some enthusiast poet seen?
The unveiling of the land Elysian,
Where death has never been?
The foretaste of a happier lot,
The prelude of a state to be,
To show that this dim earth was not
The home of man's nativity?
For what the aspiring soul desired,
And traced in its excursive flight,
Was truth in fancy's garb attired,
The shadowing forth of its delight,
A glimpse of glory infinite;
The dawning of a perfect day,
Which prophet bards had long foretold,
When sin and woe should pass away,
And bring once more the Age of Gold.
By some enthusiast poet seen?
The unveiling of the land Elysian,
Where death has never been?
The foretaste of a happier lot,
The prelude of a state to be,
To show that this dim earth was not
The home of man's nativity?
For what the aspiring soul desired,
And traced in its excursive flight,
Was truth in fancy's garb attired,
The shadowing forth of its delight,
A glimpse of glory infinite;
The dawning of a perfect day,
Which prophet bards had long foretold,
When sin and woe should pass away,
And bring once more the Age of Gold.
Nay, leave these speculative themes,
Leave to the poet his sweet dreams,
And I will show thee a delicious page
Of living poetry, the real Golden Age.
A brighter, gladder Age of Gold, in sooth,
Than poets feigned, the Golden Age of Youth.
Leave to the poet his sweet dreams,
And I will show thee a delicious page
Of living poetry, the real Golden Age.
361
Than poets feigned, the Golden Age of Youth.
Oh, Youth! thou hast a wealth beyond
What careful men do spend their souls to gain:
A trustful heart, that knows not to despond;
A joy unmixed with pain.
A world of beauty lies within thy ken;
Another paradise becomes thy lot;
Thou walk'st amid the ways of toiling men,
And yet thou knowest it not.
Thou thinkëst not to plot and circumvent;
Thou dost not calculate from morn till eve;
They speak of guile, thou know'st not what is meant;
Of broken faith, thou canst not it conceive.
What careful men do spend their souls to gain:
A trustful heart, that knows not to despond;
A joy unmixed with pain.
A world of beauty lies within thy ken;
Another paradise becomes thy lot;
Thou walk'st amid the ways of toiling men,
And yet thou knowest it not.
Thou thinkëst not to plot and circumvent;
Thou dost not calculate from morn till eve;
They speak of guile, thou know'st not what is meant;
Of broken faith, thou canst not it conceive.
Oh, happy Golden Age! thy limbs are strong,
Thou boundest like the fawn amid its play;
Thy speech is as the melody of song;
Thy pulse like waters on their cheerful way;
Beauty enrobes thee as a garment's fold;
And, as a spring within thy heart's recess,
Wells up, more precious than the sands of gold,
Thy own great happiness.
Thou boundest like the fawn amid its play;
Thy speech is as the melody of song;
Thy pulse like waters on their cheerful way;
Beauty enrobes thee as a garment's fold;
And, as a spring within thy heart's recess,
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Thy own great happiness.
Oh, beautiful and bright! That thou mightst keep
The kindness of thy soul as it is now!
That o'er thy heart no selfish chill might creep!
No sorrow dim thy brow!
That thou mightst gather up life's flowers,
Love, joy, and meditative hours,
And twine them as an amaranthine wreath
Around thy brows in death!
My daughter! my own life! to thee I turn,
And with a warm solicitude do yearn
Toward thee, in thy unpractised innocence,
And pour my longings out in fervent prayer:
God be thy blessing, thy assured defence,
Thy Comforter, thy Father, everywhere!
The kindness of thy soul as it is now!
That o'er thy heart no selfish chill might creep!
No sorrow dim thy brow!
That thou mightst gather up life's flowers,
Love, joy, and meditative hours,
And twine them as an amaranthine wreath
Around thy brows in death!
My daughter! my own life! to thee I turn,
And with a warm solicitude do yearn
Toward thee, in thy unpractised innocence,
And pour my longings out in fervent prayer:
God be thy blessing, thy assured defence,
Thy Comforter, thy Father, everywhere!
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