No eye observes the growth or the decay. To-day we look as we did yesterday; And we shall look to-morrow as to-day.
Yet while the loveliest smiles, her locks grow grey! And in her glass could she but see the face She'll see so soon amidst another race, How would she shrink!-Returning from afar, After some years of travel, some of war, Within his gate Ulysses stood unknown Before a wife, a father, and a son!
And such is Human Life, the general theme. Ah, what at best, what but a longer dream? Though with such wild romantic wanderings fraught, Such forms in Fancy's richest colouring wrought, That, like the visions of a love-sick brain, Who would not sleep and dream them o'er again? Our pathway leads but to a precipice;
And all must follow, fearful as it is!
From the first step 'tis known; but-No delay! On, 'tis decreed. We tremble and obey. A thousand ills beset us as we go.
-"Still, could I shun the fatal gulf”—Ah, no, "Tis all in vain-the inexorable Law! Nearer and nearer to the brink we draw. Verdure springs up; and fruits and flowers invite, And groves and fountains-all things that delight. "Oh I would stop, and linger if I might!"- We fly; no resting for the foot we find;
All dark before, all desolate behind!
At length the brink appears-but one step more! We faint--On, on!-we falter-and 'tis o'er!
Yet here high passions, high desires unfold, Prompting to noblest deeds; here links of gold Bind soul to soul; and thoughts divine inspire A thirst unquenchable, a holy fire
That will not, cannot but with life expire!
Now, seraph-winged, among the stars we soar; Now distant ages, like a day, explore, And judge the act, the actor now no more; Or, in a thankless hour condemned to live, From others claim what these refuse to give, And dart, like MILTON, an unerring eye Through the dim curtains of Futurity.
Wealth, Pleasure, Ease, all thought of self resigned, What will not Man encounter for Mankind? Behold him now unbar the prison-door, And, lifting Guilt, Contagion from the floor, To Peace and Health, and Light and Life restore; Now in Thermopylæ remain to share
Death-nor look back, nor turn a footstep there, Leaving his story to the birds of air;
And now like Pylades (in Heaven they write Names such as his in characters of light) Long with his friend in generous enmity, Pleading, insisting in his place to die! Do what he will, he cannot realize Half he conceives-the glorious vision flies.
Go where he may, he cannot hope to find The truth, the beauty pictured in his mind. But if by chance an object strike the sense, The faintest shadow of that Excellence, Passions, that slept, are stirring in his frame; Thoughts undefined, feelings without a name! And some, not here called forth, may slumber on Till this vain pageant of a world is gone; Lying too deep for things that perish here, Waiting for life-but in a nobler sphere!
Look where he comes! Rejoicing in his birth, Awhile he moves as in a heaven on earth! Sun, moon, and stars-the land, the sea, the sky To him shine out as in a galaxy!
But soon 'tis past-the light has died away! With him it came (it was not of the day) And he himself diffused it, like the stone That sheds awhile a lustre all its own, Making night beautiful. "Tis past, 'tis And in his darkness as he journies on, Nothing revives him but the blessed ray That now breaks in, nor ever knows decay, Sent from a better world to light him on his way. How great the Mystery! Let others sing The circling Year, the promise of the Spring, The Summer's glory, and the rich repose Of Autumn, and the Winter's silvery snows. Man through the changing scene let me pursue, Himself how wondrous in his changes too!
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