University of Virginia Library

TIME.

Time! oft when I have heard some solemn clock
Startle the air with its sonorous shock,
While rung with chime, prolonged upon the ear,
The strong vibration of its echoes clear,
I have translated thus thy stern address,
To those that mark thee little—prize thee less—
“Haste! Mortals, haste!—improve the gift of birth,
Ye have a God in Heaven—a Grave on Earth!”
For it is so! and soon, how soon we crave
Below, the shelter of that shadowing Grave,
How soon lie down in its unbroken gloom,
Forsaking all our treasures for the tomb,
Forgetting all our occupations here,
Foregoing all our Heart-affections dear,
For ever and for ever—Oh! no more
To hope and dream as we were wont before,
No more to dwell in joy, 'mongst well known things,
To which the natural heart so fondly clings,
So fondly and so firmly, till, alas!
It finds its joys were only made to pass.
How soon we close our longing lingering eyes
On all that we most fervently could prize,
Most deeply cherish, and leave all behind
Which claimed the strong devotion of the mind;
Death from our sight doth all these things remove,
Howe'er we watched them with a jealous love,
And then our title we perforce resign
(Oh! Death, how harsh a tyranny is thine)
To all we held most sacredly our own,
And yield it up as though we ne'er had known
We have a grave on Earth! 'tis all we have—
And that the Monarch shareth with the Slave,
'Tis all we truly certainly possess—
Though Fortune rain her fair gifts to excess
Upon our honoured and our favoured heads—
And in our paths Hope's form of Beauty treads!
'Tis all we have—though we may seem to be
Rich in deep sources of felicity;
On this bleak Earth 'tis all indeed we have,
Our only home is in that silent cave!—
There all of woman born must surely dwell,
Palace and Prison—Court and Citadel—
Since that dark place of rest alone remains
To those who dwelt in piles like idol fanes!
A handful of dim dust is all indeed
That ev'n the loftiest and the best shall need,
Ere many years above their heads are flown,
And this is all that can be all their own.
We have a Grave on Earth—a lowly Grave,
And those long tossed on Life's distracting wave
May lay their heads down on that Earth at last,
And gladly say, “the weary time is past!”
For Sorrow pierces with her poisoned dart
The yearning anxious fevered human heart,
And doubt disturbs it and remorse o'ertakes,
Until with secret longing oft it aches
For that unbroken, that undreaming rest,
With which the sleeper of the Grave is blest,
That silent and all motionless repose
Which blesseth those whose eyes for ever close!—
Which heareth heedeth not the echoing strife,
Around, above, of restless warring Life—
We have a Grave on Earth—that, that alone
Can be indeed and certainly our own—
All other things depart from us, or we
Depart from them howe'er unwillingly,
The miser ceases his convulsive hold
Upon his darling and long-treasured gold,
The Monarch quits his proud and glittering throne,
And goes, where he is watched and served by none.
The bridegroom turns him haply from his bride,
Content in solitary gloom to abide—
The warrior leaves his triumphs all behind,
And yields his honours with an humbled mind.
Man to the Grave must turn—of all bereft—
He finds at length the Grave alone is left,
And this austere possession, this is all
That we our own with perfect truth can call.
Rash, reckless beings—while we hurry on,
Nor value Time till precious Time is gone!
As though the World and all it hath were ours,
And we were dwellers in unfading bowers;
A Grave—a Grave on Earth! dark, narrow, drear,
And can this World then be so deeply dear,
'Twould seem as though we were in life the lords
Of boundless empire, and exhaustless hoards,
Enriched with gifts immortal and sublime,
That never might be crushed or reft by Time?
Alas! how different 'tis! how brief our tale,
How slight our tenure, and our trust how frail,
We strive and struggle for a little while,
Then sets that Sun that never more shall smile
On our fond efforts, or our darling schemes,
And all our hopes depart like morning dreams,
We close our eyes on this World's busy scene,
And nothing is for us that ere hath been,
For we are nothing—we ourselves are nought,
And Death hath overta'en the winged Thought—
From his dread power no skill no strength can save,
On Earth we have a Grave, and but a Grave!
This World with all its glory, all its bloom,
Is but for us a proud and spacious tomb,
A sure and mighty sepulchre it is,
And all we claim of it as ours—is this—
And shall we cling then with an ill placed trust,
False to our interest—to ourselves unjust?
To all the uncertain good it hath to give,
Which soon must cease, since soon we cease to live,
And worship at this World's unhallowed shrine,
Nor to a loftier hope and trust incline,
Unthinking Mortals!—all proclaims ye have
On Earth a Grave—and nothing but a Grave!
And all proclaims, with voice as deep and loud,
To ye, the rash, the insatiate, and the proud,
That ye indeed have in the Heavens above
A God Omnipotent, of Grace and Love!
A Grave on Earth—but, Oh! a God in Heaven,
Can you forget His Love and be forgiven?
'Tis boundless, endless, evermore the same,
And all their portion in its truth may claim
The lowliest and the mightiest of the Earth,
The strongest and the weakest, from their birth,
Until the hour appointed for their death,
And, Oh! yet after they resign their breath—
Then shall it be in all its greatness shown,
For ever still unchangeably their own—
A treasure far beyond all powers of thought,
To appreciate and to acknowledge as they ought!
Were all yon shining Worlds on Man bestowed
With which the irradiate space streams overflowed,
Those Suns of many Splendours, that outblaze
At nameless distances, with glittering rays,
'Twere as a handful of unvalued dust
Compared with that deep treasure of our trust!
Light in the balance these were found indeed
Weighed 'gainst that wealth which must all else exceed.
Then let us listen to thy call sublime,
Thou swift and sure and ne'er delaying Time,
And lift our Souls up with a reverent love,
Even to the Heaven that brightly spreads above!
For if we may but have a Grave on Earth,
A treasure there is ours of priceless worth,
A certain and a lasting one, which nought
Can snatch from our firm hold—with rapture fraught!
Oh! let us unto that unfaultering cling,
And raise our hopes from each low Earthborn thing,
Give all our Souls to that, and that alone—
And claim it, seize it, clasp it for our own;
Speak on, thou solemn chime! speak ever on,
And let me dwell thy counsel sage upon,
Speak on, and let my spirit wakening thrill
With one deep echo to that counsel still!
How many thoughtless or obdurate hear
That voice of Time which lingers on the ear—
With grave deep warning, as they onwards pass,
To where his swiftness speeds them still, alas!
Even to that long and lone and lasting home
Of hopeless silence—and of changeless gloom,
Yet beautiful as Paradise in sight
Of those who mark behind it Heaven's own light!
Speak on! thou eloquent and solemn chime,
Speak to my Soul in language all sublime,
Since it is Truth itself—triumphant truth!
Oh! wise are they who prize it in their youth,
Ere weakened energy and lessened strength
Smite with decay the Soul's best powers at length,
And render difficult that task enjoined,
To lift from Earthly things the Earth-stained mind!
Aid me! Eternal Source of grace and good,
Aid me to exalt my mind's taught tutored mood—
To turn from all these petty Worldly things,
Which taint the Spirit to its deepest springs;
Aid me to love thyself, thyself to serve,
Nor let me from the course of duty swerve,
Keep me, Oh! keep me in the right, true way,
My judgments 'stablish, and my feelings sway,
Make me to feel with chastened awe, and know
That this a state of trial is below,
That nothing can deserve Man's watchful care
On this dim scene, where all one fate must share,
One doom must find, a stern and mournful doom,
Give back thy hollow echo-answer—Tomb!
Awake, ye dreamers, that with vainest love
Seek all below—forgetting all above!
Awake, awake, ere yet it is too late
To amend your prospects and improve your fate,
Hear but the warning of that solemn chime,
Which calls with voice as startling as sublime,
And sternly doth unceasingly proclaim
One mighty truth—and evermore the same:—
“The hours are speeding towards Life's final hour,
Awake, arouse, while yet 'tis in your power.”
Awake, arouse then, Dreamers—cast away
The unmeaning trifles o'er your Souls that sway,
The little time that Heaven shall yet allow,
Oh! give it to your preparation now,
Since on that preparation must depend
Your future good and glory without end.
How merciful is Heaven to thankless Man,
Even in his brief and strictly measured span,
How doth he find at every step he takes,
Some warning, which its just impression makes
Upon his yearning and expectant mind,
If not with wilful stubborn dulness blind!
A gracious Father guides our course from Heaven,
Can we forget His Love, and be forgiven?
Can we resign our claims to His deep Grace,
And hope in peace to end our mortal race?
Can we with careless impious folly, turn
From His own paths, and dream we shall not mourn?
A voice within us answers deeply, No!
A voice within us, speaking clear and low,
And that too echoeth thy prophetic call,
Oh! Time!—that cryeth loudly unto all
With iron tongue of dread and stern appeal,
Which even the giddiest at some moments feel,
“Prepare!”—and yet again “Prepare!” again,
And oft again to reckless heedless men—
But doth it only echo thy strong cry?
Oh! it hath syllabled thy wordless sigh,
And breathed its mystic music, full and deep
O'er thy stern tone, till the hours might seem to weep
O'er all that they destroy with dull decay,
So gently do they warn their destined prey!
So mildly urge them as they speed along,
To save their living Souls from blight and wrong,
To buckle on that armour pure and bright,
Which still can save them from such wrong and blight.
Speak on, thou hollow-sounding chime, and say,
“Ye have a Grave on Earth!”—Man may not stay
'Mongst these, his old familiar Worldly things,
Time flieth fast, his Soul too hath her wings,
Not still she standeth, 'mid the motion round,
But striveth to press on beyond her bound,
To leave behind the associates of her way,
Those Earth-born things that must endure decay,
Even the most thoughtless Worldling feels at times
One thought within him that aspiring climbs,
And soars away an instant from the din
That echoing soundeth in this World of Sin,
One thought that trembleth like a Heavenly Star
Amid the cloudy darkness and the war,
The wild confusion and the waste of life,
The restless hurry and the heated strife—
And if that thought be not insanely chased,
As though the immortal spirit it disgraced,
The Star will to a glorious Sun outblaze,
And light created Nature with its rays!
Since still it clear pronounceth evermore
What Nature too hath oft pronounced before,
Repealing that stern sentence of dismay
Which speaks but of the Grave and Death's dire sway,
And fearlessly asserts, in accents plain,
“Ye have a God in Heaven!”—Oh! blessed strain,
Let all the Soul take up with hallowed zeal
Its perfect harmony—her wounds to heal,
Her griefs to banish, and her fears to lull,
While thence she may unbounded rapture cull,
And draw a consolation all divine,
Which shall with every conscious thought entwine.
Oh! more than Happiness—joy-shaming Hope,
What prospects lengthening and expanding ope
Before the Spirit's all-enraptured sight,
Glory on Glory heaped—Light after Light,
Still new variety of dazzling Day
That drives the thought of Darkness ev'n away.
Joy-shaming Hope! how startlingly sublime
Dost thou spring forth to gild the brow of Time,
Which like some mighty Angel speeds, as fain
Its goal, the glorious gate of Heaven, to gain,
And melt into the Eternity supreme,
As melteth into truth some wandering dream.
Oh! more than Happiness! Surpassing Hope,
Scarce can the Soul with thy great triumph cope,
To live for ever 'mid those Worlds of bliss,
Too bright, too blessed to be glimpsed in this,
Where Death nor Grief nor Pain nor Sin nor Fear,
Nor even their fleeting shadows may appear
Perfect with all perfection, deep and true,
Within themselves, and circled with it too!
Oh! Happiness-surpassing Hope!—to thee
Still let us cling through our Mortality,
Nor from our thoughts be thou e'er banished far
The Soul's victorious and undying Star!
Ne'er from our thoughts may this great Truth be driven,
We have a Grave on Earth—a God in Heaven!