The Poetry of Real Life A New Edition, Much Enlarged and Improved. By Henry Ellison |
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REMINISCENCES OF BOYHOOD. |
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 | The Poetry of Real Life |  |
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REMINISCENCES OF BOYHOOD.
Alas! as with a sponge, Time hath effaced
The lines of favour, hath rubbed out the sum
Of youthful years, which never more will come;
Another harder score must now be traced,
And that by harder, in its turn, displaced!
How many voices of delight are dumb,
How many glimpses of Elysium
Are gone, how many bright hopes, vainly chaced!
Alas! how shall I find that wealth again,
Which coined its golden pleasures from the dross
Of common circumstance, yet bearing, plain
As Truth, God's holy impress? joys whose loss
Gold cannot compensate, nor all Earth's vain
And glittering baubles, with their hollow gloss!
The lines of favour, hath rubbed out the sum
Of youthful years, which never more will come;
Another harder score must now be traced,
And that by harder, in its turn, displaced!
How many voices of delight are dumb,
How many glimpses of Elysium
Are gone, how many bright hopes, vainly chaced!
Alas! how shall I find that wealth again,
Which coined its golden pleasures from the dross
Of common circumstance, yet bearing, plain
As Truth, God's holy impress? joys whose loss
Gold cannot compensate, nor all Earth's vain
And glittering baubles, with their hollow gloss!
The best things are not to be bought with gold—
They do not flutter round Power's diadem,
Moths of court-favour, nor upon the hem
Of Greatness light obsequious, when told,
Poor, gilded butterflies, killed with the first cold!
They are not won by force or stratagem,
Nor caught with Fashion's bait, or Beauty's gem:
These cannot win, nor, could they win them, hold!
So thought I when, a merry boy, I saw
The gilded pomps of this vain world pass by,
While fools looked on with envy or with awe!
So think I now, and, with a steady eye,
I scan each mote, and weigh each gilded straw,
In the sure balance of Humanity!
They do not flutter round Power's diadem,
Moths of court-favour, nor upon the hem
Of Greatness light obsequious, when told,
Poor, gilded butterflies, killed with the first cold!
They are not won by force or stratagem,
Nor caught with Fashion's bait, or Beauty's gem:
These cannot win, nor, could they win them, hold!
So thought I when, a merry boy, I saw
The gilded pomps of this vain world pass by,
While fools looked on with envy or with awe!
So think I now, and, with a steady eye,
I scan each mote, and weigh each gilded straw,
In the sure balance of Humanity!
| The Poetry of Real Life | |