Metrical essays :: :: University of Virginia Library

“These are but few from many
Of life's chequer'd scenes; yet these
Are but as all,—pride, power, hope,
Then weakness, grief, disease.
Oh, glory of the morning!
Oh, ye gifted, young, and brave!
What end have ye, but midnight;
What find ye but the grave?”
L. E. L.

I

The bravest of the mighty dead!
That glorious name I sing,
Linked unto immortality,
As sunlight to the spring:
The name before which nations bow'd,
As though a God it owned;
The name on fame's bright page beheld
With hundred conquests 'throned!—

II

Thou heard'st it, gorgeous Babylon,
A spell it was of fear,
Dark and distasteful to thine eye;
And humbling to thine ear.
Thou heard'st it, O! Jerusalem,
And in thy quailing heart
There came that pulse of bitterness
With which 'tis bliss to part.

III

Vict'ry seem'd proud to grace his brow,
Fortune to lead his car,
His sword was light upon the land,
Upon the waves a star!
The earth bestowed her splendid wealth;
And the vast realm of seas
Gave up, as to her rightful lord,
Her golden argosies.

IV

Sad—silent—is the regal hall,
It's gardens of the rose
So beautiful, the eye might gaze
And never wish to close;—
The richest carpets woo the feet,
The banquet board is spread,
But he, alas! for whom they shine—
Their lord—their king—is dead!

V

Hear ye those sounds—loud as the storm
O'er the dark forest sweeps;
Wild as the giant cataract
From rock to valley leaps;
Hear ye those martial strains which swell
Like floods when thunders fall?—
It is the gathering of a host—
A monarch's funeral!

VI

It comes—that brave solemnity;

“The multitude of spectators in this solemnity is hardly credible; but they were drawn together as well by their veneration for the memory of Alexander, as by the magnificence of this funeral pomp, which had never been equalled in the world.“ Rollin.

And glorious 'tis to see
The flash of arms—the wave of plumes—
The silver panoply;
All rich accoutrements of war:—
The banners' stately fold,
The funeral car—the raven steeds—
The throne of burnish'd gold!

VII

Great Alexander! e'en of all,
Oe'r which his banners wave,
He hath—he cannot claim—but this,—
One narrow spot—his grave!
And is it thus the mightiest pass;
They, on whose lightest breath
Hundreds attend;—then, what is pride
'Fore its high master—Death?

VIII

A morning sunbeam on the lake,
Slave to each tyrant shade,
A bubble, only blown to burst,
A flower, ere night to fade.
The only things on which 'tis wise
To fix the heart and eye
Are deeds and words of nobleness,
For these shall never die!