 | Outlines of Edinburgh, and Other Poems |  |
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RETROSPECTION.
WRITTEN AT WINCHESTER.
Like the successive clouds, that fly
Across an April morning sky,
Mingling in a few short hours,
The brightest rays, and darkest show'rs,
Thus varied are the days I've seen,
Thus fleeting have my moments been;
Dangerous when dazzling most,
Scarce present, ere for ever lost.
Across an April morning sky,
Mingling in a few short hours,
The brightest rays, and darkest show'rs,
Thus varied are the days I've seen,
Thus fleeting have my moments been;
Dangerous when dazzling most,
Scarce present, ere for ever lost.
Sometimes tranquil, and serene;
Sometimes sad my hours have been;
Sometimes gloomy, sometimes gay,
Months and years have pass'd away.
Sometimes sad my hours have been;
Sometimes gloomy, sometimes gay,
Months and years have pass'd away.
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How swift on Time's unceasing wave,
We glide from childhood to the grave!
Hour by hour,—and day by day,
The happy dreams of youth decay;
For present ills a balm we borrow,
In expectation of to-morrow;
Yet still alas! to-morrow's sun,
Finds us in sorrow journeying on.
Forgetful of life's former gloom,
We live in hopes of joy to come;
Till imperceptibly our prime,
Is wither'd by the storms of Time.
We glide from childhood to the grave!
Hour by hour,—and day by day,
The happy dreams of youth decay;
For present ills a balm we borrow,
In expectation of to-morrow;
Yet still alas! to-morrow's sun,
Finds us in sorrow journeying on.
Forgetful of life's former gloom,
We live in hopes of joy to come;
Till imperceptibly our prime,
Is wither'd by the storms of Time.
Hope builds some fair and flimsy scheme,
And disappointment ends the dream;
We mourn awhile for visions gone,
Time sooths us,—and we still hope on!
Poor mortals! thus the ants prepare
Their little nests with busy care;
Too soon may truant's footsteps spoil
The cells they form'd with so much toil;
They build—and find their labour vain—
The fabric falls,—they build again.
And disappointment ends the dream;
We mourn awhile for visions gone,
Time sooths us,—and we still hope on!
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Their little nests with busy care;
Too soon may truant's footsteps spoil
The cells they form'd with so much toil;
They build—and find their labour vain—
The fabric falls,—they build again.
Winton! these feelings are more sage,
More fit for my maturer age,
Than those wild thoughts for ever past,
Which charm'd me when I left thee last:
More sage—more sad; and it were strange,
If fleeting years had wrought no change,
And I could wander here, and find
The boyish heart I left behind.
More fit for my maturer age,
Than those wild thoughts for ever past,
Which charm'd me when I left thee last:
More sage—more sad; and it were strange,
If fleeting years had wrought no change,
And I could wander here, and find
The boyish heart I left behind.
Yes, here I rove, but there are none
Who knew me here, they all are gone;
All the young crew, the best, the worst,
The gayest—wildest—all disperst!
I stand alone, and find the place
Devoted to another race;
Who gaze at me with boyish air;
The counterparts of what we were.
Who knew me here, they all are gone;
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The gayest—wildest—all disperst!
I stand alone, and find the place
Devoted to another race;
Who gaze at me with boyish air;
The counterparts of what we were.
Yes, o'er the field we sported thus,
As if the world were made for us;
Earth's brightest joy, a noisy play,
And life's best gift—a holiday!
As if the world were made for us;
Earth's brightest joy, a noisy play,
And life's best gift—a holiday!
Too soon does boyhood's artless grace
To manhood's lofty form give place;
And manhood's spirit,—vigour, strength,
To feeble age must yield at length:
But thoughtless boyhood is array'd
With more of sunshine, less of shade;
Than we e'er view upon the page
Of manhood, or declining age:
Warm imagination, then
Overlooks the ills of men;
And glancing o'er the prospect wide,
Dwells only on the brightest side.
To manhood's lofty form give place;
And manhood's spirit,—vigour, strength,
To feeble age must yield at length:
But thoughtless boyhood is array'd
With more of sunshine, less of shade;
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Of manhood, or declining age:
Warm imagination, then
Overlooks the ills of men;
And glancing o'er the prospect wide,
Dwells only on the brightest side.
| Outlines of Edinburgh, and Other Poems | |