University of Virginia Library

TO-MORROW.

To-morrow, what art thou? what art thou not?
No cloud can dim thy shine—thy smile can blot;
Oh! thou art joy and rest, and strength and power,
No gloom can o'er thy radiant aspect lower;
No frown can darken o'er thy Sunbright-face,
Then shall we snatch the prize—then gain the race;
Then win the victory, and the task achieve,
Then all our follies—all our faults retrieve.
Then shall the gladness of our great success
With more than mortal thrills of rapture bless,
And all shall wear a look of Heaven around,
Delight shall have no damp—and bliss no bound!
To-morrow! thou art ever all in all,
No grief shall then oppress—no wrong befall;
Oh! thou art Empire—boundless and immense,
And Sovereign gifts of good shalt thou dispense!
And thou art Paradise and perfect joy
Without the dream of shadow or alloy!
Then shall we drain the cup, and cull the wreath,
Ours shall be Heaven above—and Earth beneath;
Then shall our triumph be indeed complete,
The World—the World shall worship at our feet!
Then shall we gain the most divine repose,
And all forget our trials and our woes;
Love shall still tend us, knowledge shall exalt,
And Peace in all our paths shall smiling halt,
Honour shall wait upon us, fortune serve,
No more our trust shall ebb, our purpose swerve!
To-morrow we shall laugh at thee, vain Past,
And reap the harvest of our hopes at last!
We shall then land upon the promised shore,
Safe from the billow's swell—the tempest's roar—
Take up in pleasant places our abode,
And toil no more in emulation's road,
And slippery paths of difficult access,
Oft wrung by Disappointment's chill distress.
To-morrow!—Oh! to-morrow! then indeed
Shall we surmount the mound and snatch the meed,
And then the wages of our toil receive,
And then the web shall we triumphant weave;
That web—in painful progress yet more slow
Than hers who wept in silent widowed woe
In Ithaca's lorn lordless Isle of old,
She who the wearying days heart-sickened told,
And heavily with true affection mourned,
And still to one beloved object turned,
Her hands undid the labour of her hands,
But by our side some mocking dæmon stands,
Who still makes all our efforts end in nought,
And vainly have we struggled—vainly sought,
And fruitlessly have watched—and idly wrought;
Some frail thread loosened, loosens then the whole,
And aches with hope deferred the sorrowing soul!
Discouraged, not deterred, we strive again
With fainter heart and with more troubled brain,
The same results repeated still to find,
Yet still to toil with fond devotion blind.
To spin the gossamer, to weave the sands
In stable twines, in strong and steadfast bands,
Were tasks as easy as to form and frame
To something actual, each disturbing dream;
To make each dear illusion brightly be
A truth, a trust, and a reality!
Yet Oh! to-morrow! though to-day destroy,
Thy sun shall shine to light us to our joy!
Whate'er is hard and difficult to-day,
To-morrow shall be but as lightsome play;
To-day, we stoop, we sink beneath the weight,
To-morrow we shall rise above our fate;
Oh! fair to-morrow! what shalt thou not bring,
What treasures at our feet shalt thou not fling?
To-day—much, much impossible we own,
To thee can nought impossible be known!
Oh! thou art boundless Good and boundless Power,
And Hopes hang on thee as in morning's hour
Dewdrops on flowers and leaves, a dazzling crown
Which the least touch shall shake too surely down;
And so fleet all our radiant hopes away,
When bright to-morrow hath become to-day;
It ever proves too painfully the same,—
Ever its nature changing with its name!