WHEN the young Eagle, with exulting eye,
Has learned to dare the splendour of the sky,
And leave the Alps beneath him in his course,
To bathe his crest in morn's empyreal source,
Will his free wing, from that majestic height,
Descend to follow some wild meteor's light,
Which far below, with evanescent fire,
Shines to delude, and dazzles to expire?
No! still through clouds he wins his upward way, And proudly claims his heritage of day! -And shall the spirit on whose ardent gaze The day-spring from on high hath pour'd its blaze, Turn from that pure effulgence to the beam Of earth-born light that sheds a treacherous gleam, Luring the wanderer from a star of faith, To the deep valley of the shades of death? What bright exchange, what treasure shall be given, For the high birth-right of its hope in Heaven? If lost the gem which empires could not buy, What yet remains?-a dark eternity!
Is earth still Eden!-might a seraph guest, Still, 'midst its chosen bowers, delighted rest! Is all so cloudless and so calm below,
We seek no fairer scenes than life can show?
That the cold Sceptic, in his pride elate,
Rejects the promise of a brighter state,
And leaves the rock, no tempest shall displace,
To rear his dwelling on the quicksand's base?
Votary of doubt! then join the festal throng, Bask in the sunbeam, listen to the song, Spread the rich board, and fill the wine-cup high, And bind the wreath ere yet the roses die! 'Tis well, thine eye is yet undimm'd by time, And thy heart bounds, exulting in its prime; Smile then unmoved at Wisdom's warning voice, And, in the glory of thy strength, rejoice!
But life has sterner tasks; e'en youth's brief hours
Survive the beauty of their loveliest flowers;
The founts of joy, where pilgrims rest from toil,
Are few and distant on the desert soil;
The soul's pure flame the breath of storms must fan,
And pain and sorrow claim their nursling-Man!
Earth's noblest sons the bitter cup have shared—
Proud child of reason, how art thou prepared?
When years, with silent might, thy frame have bow'd,
And o'er thy spirit cast their wintry cloud,
Will Memory soothe thee on thy bed of pain,
With the bright images of pleasure's train?
Yes! as the sight of some far distant shore,
Whose well-known scenes his foot shall tread no more,
Would cheer the seaman, by the eddying wave
Drawn, vainly struggling, to th' unfathom'd grave!
Shall Hope, the faithful cherub, hear thy call,
She who, like heaven's own sunbeam, smiles for all?
Will she speak comfort?-Thou hast shorn her plume, That might have raised thee far above the tomb, And hush'd the only voice whose angel tone Soothes when all melodies of joy are flown!
For she was born beyond the stars to soar, And kindling at the source of life, above; Thou couldst not, mortal! rivet to the earth Her eye, whose beam is of celestial birth;
She dwells with those who leave her pinion free, And sheds the dews of heav'n on all but thee.
Yet few there are, so lonely, so bereft,
But some true heart, that beats to theirs is left,
And, haply, one whose strong affection's power
Unchanged may triumph through misfortune's hour,
Still with fond care supports thy languid head,
And keeps unwearied vigils by thy bed.
But thou! whose thoughts have no blest home
above,
Captive of earth! and canst thou dare to love?
To nurse such feelings as delight to rest,
Within that hallow'd shrine-a parent's breast,
To fix each hope, concentrate every tie,
On one frail idol,-destined but to die,
Yet mock the faith that points to worlds of light,
Where sever'd souls, made perfect, reunite?
Then tremble! cling to every passing joy,
Twined with the life a moment may destroy!
If there be sorrow in a parting tear,
Still let "for ever" vibrate on thine ear!
If some bright hour on rapture's wing hath flown,
Find more than anguish in the thought-'tis gone!
Go! to a voice such magic influence give,
Thou canst not lose its melody, and live;
And make an eye the lode-star of thy soul,
And let a glance the springs of thought control;
Gaze on a mortal form with fond delight,
Till the fair vision mingles with thy sight;
There seek thy blessings, there repose thy trust,
Lean on the willow, idolize the dust!
Then, when thy treasure best repays thy care,
Think on that dread "for ever"—and despair!
And oh no strange, unwonted storm there needs,
To wreck at once thy fragile ark of reeds.
Watch well its course-explore with anxious eye
Each little cloud that floats along the sky-
Is the blue canopy serenely fair?
Yet may the thunderbolt unseen be there,
And the bark sink, when peace and sunshine sleep
On the smooth bosom of the waveless deep!
Yes! ere a sound, a sign, announce thy fate,
May the blow fall which makes thee desolate !
Not always Heaven's destroying angel shrouds
His awful form in tempests and in clouds;
He fills the summer-air with latent power,
He hides his venom in the scented flower,
He steals upon thee, in the Zephyr's breath,
And festal garlands veil the shafts of death!
Where art thou then, who thus didst rashly cast Thine all upon the mercy of the blast,
And vainly hope the tree of life to find
Rooted in sands that flit before the wind?
Is not that earth thy spirit loved so well,
It wish'd not in a brighter sphere to dwell,
Become a desert now, a veil of gloom,
O'ershadow'd with the midnight of the tomb?
Where shalt thou turn?-it is not thine to raise
To yon pure heaven thy calm confiding gaze.
No gleam reflected from that realm of rest
Steals on the darkness of thy troubled breast,
Not for thine eye shall faith divinely shed
Her glory round the image of the dead;
And if, when slumber's lonely couch is prest,
The form departed be thy spirit's guest,
It bears no light from purer worlds to this;
The future lends not e'en a dream of bliss.
But who shall dare the Gate of Life to close,
Or say, thus far the stream of mercy flows?
That fount unseal'd, whose boundless waves embrace
Each distant isle, and visit every race,
Pours from the Throne of God its current free,
Nor yet denies th' immortal draught to thee.
Oh! while the doom impends, nor yet decreed,
While yet th' Atoner hath not ceased to plead,
While still, suspended by a single hair,
The sharp bright sword hangs quivering in the air,
Bow down thy heart to Him, who will not break
The bruised reed; e'en yet, awake, awake!
Patient, because Eternal, (1) He may hear
Thy prayer of agony with pitying ear,
And send his chastening spirit from above,
O'er the deep chaos of thy soul to move.
|