The Poetry of Real Life A New Edition, Much Enlarged and Improved. By Henry Ellison |
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ON AN UNDECYPHERED ETRUSCAN URN, WITH AN INSCRIPTION. |
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 | The Poetry of Real Life |  |
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ON AN UNDECYPHERED ETRUSCAN URN, WITH AN INSCRIPTION.
Best Secretkeeper! ages whispered thee
Some mighty truth, and to thy silent care
Entrusted it, lest it should bruited be
To mortal hearing by the blabbing air!
A spirit haunts thee still, whose voice was on
The winds, and in the many-scented grove,
And in Man's dwellings, but no echo now
Does Earth from all her caves give back, to prove
That such things were: thus art thou left alone,
Like something in a dream, we know not how!
Some mighty truth, and to thy silent care
Entrusted it, lest it should bruited be
To mortal hearing by the blabbing air!
A spirit haunts thee still, whose voice was on
The winds, and in the many-scented grove,
And in Man's dwellings, but no echo now
Does Earth from all her caves give back, to prove
That such things were: thus art thou left alone,
Like something in a dream, we know not how!
Into what strange relations does not Time
Bring most familiar things! the flight of years
Fits commonest objects for the poet's rhyme!
Thus thou art as a link betwixt two spheres,
Distinct as dreams are from reality:
Since but for thee that world, unto which thou
Belong'st, were but a dream, and which so long
Has left thee, like a shell, forsaken by
Life's ebbing ocean, that I in my song
May put thee to a use undreamt 'till now!
Bring most familiar things! the flight of years
Fits commonest objects for the poet's rhyme!
Thus thou art as a link betwixt two spheres,
Distinct as dreams are from reality:
Since but for thee that world, unto which thou
Belong'st, were but a dream, and which so long
Has left thee, like a shell, forsaken by
Life's ebbing ocean, that I in my song
May put thee to a use undreamt 'till now!
Within thy narrow space of sculptured rim
Are ages buried, all their noise and strife
But dust and silence! oh! how faint and dim
The records of a nation's mighty life!
A babe would occupy a larger space
Than Time to the huge bulk of hopes and fears
Of centuries accords! some words which we,
Like children playing with a puzzle, trace,
Hold forth a seeming light, which disappears,
And leaves us groping still in mystery!
Are ages buried, all their noise and strife
But dust and silence! oh! how faint and dim
The records of a nation's mighty life!
A babe would occupy a larger space
Than Time to the huge bulk of hopes and fears
Of centuries accords! some words which we,
Like children playing with a puzzle, trace,
Hold forth a seeming light, which disappears,
And leaves us groping still in mystery!
227
What language speak'st thou? did the maiden's tongue,
Trembling, pronounce with it a lover's name,
Did statesman thunder with it, or sweet song
Stir up Men's hearts with Truth's own sacred flame?
Faithful to its high task it answers not:
Yet, still in silence eloquent, it says,
“The Past is even this same dust you see,
Its pomp and glitter here, behold its lot,
And take thou warning hence: the present day's
Thine own, the past is in Eternity!”
Trembling, pronounce with it a lover's name,
Did statesman thunder with it, or sweet song
Stir up Men's hearts with Truth's own sacred flame?
Faithful to its high task it answers not:
Yet, still in silence eloquent, it says,
“The Past is even this same dust you see,
Its pomp and glitter here, behold its lot,
And take thou warning hence: the present day's
Thine own, the past is in Eternity!”
Oh silence, far more eloquent than speech,
Oh little monument of mightiest things,
Oh blank, that more than volumes-full dost teach,
Thou hast more dread and awe than waits on kings!
Within thy circuit lies the round of life—
Cup of Oblivion, for such thou art,
Time proffers thee unto me, and I drink
Forgetfulness of Being's passing strife:
Which, like the little dust within thy brink,
Seems nought already, as thereof 'twere part!
Oh little monument of mightiest things,
Oh blank, that more than volumes-full dost teach,
Thou hast more dread and awe than waits on kings!
Within thy circuit lies the round of life—
Cup of Oblivion, for such thou art,
Time proffers thee unto me, and I drink
Forgetfulness of Being's passing strife:
Which, like the little dust within thy brink,
Seems nought already, as thereof 'twere part!
Oh elixir divine, by mortal hand
Not mixed, but by the subtle elements
Themselves, which Being and Decay command,
And all the ebbs and flows of our intents,
And motions of the spirit, thee I drain,
As one, athirst for immortality,
The cup an angel proffers unto him!
Medea would have mixed such draught in vain,
But, in this, Time both and Eternity,
Like two rich wines, are mixed, full to the brim!
Not mixed, but by the subtle elements
Themselves, which Being and Decay command,
And all the ebbs and flows of our intents,
And motions of the spirit, thee I drain,
As one, athirst for immortality,
The cup an angel proffers unto him!
Medea would have mixed such draught in vain,
But, in this, Time both and Eternity,
Like two rich wines, are mixed, full to the brim!
| The Poetry of Real Life | |