第19章 III(11)
And yet a little longer speak, Calm this resentful mood;And while the savage heart grows meek, For other token do not seek, But let the tear upon my cheek Evince my gratitude!
THE OLD STOIC.
Riches I hold in light esteem, And Love I laugh to scorn;And lust of fame was but a dream, That vanished with the morn:
And if I pray, the only prayer That moves my lips for me Is, "Leave the heart that now I bear, And give me liberty!"
Yes, as my swift days near their goal:
'Tis all that I implore ;In life and death a chainless soul, With courage to endure.
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POEMS BY ACTON BELL, A REMINISCENCE.
Yes, thou art gone! and never more Thy sunny smile shall gladden me;But I may pass the old church door, And pace the floor that covers thee, May stand upon the cold, damp stone, And think that, frozen, lies below The lightest heart that I have known, The kindest I shall ever know.
Yet, though I cannot see thee more, 'Tis still a comfort to have seen;And though thy transient life is o'er, 'Tis sweet to think that thou hast been;To think a soul so near divine, Within a form so angel fair, United to a heart like thine, Has gladdened once our humble sphere.
THE ARBOUR.
I'll rest me in this sheltered bower, And look upon the clear blue sky That smiles upon me through the trees, Which stand so thick clustering by;And view their green and glossy leaves, All glistening in the sunshine fair;And list the rustling of their boughs, So softly whispering through the air.
And while my ear drinks in the sound, My winged soul shall fly away;Reviewing lone departed years As one mild, beaming, autumn day;And soaring on to future scenes, Like hills and woods, and valleys green, All basking in the summer's sun, But distant still, and dimly seen.
Oh, list! 'tis summer's very breath That gently shakes the rustling trees--
But look! the snow is on the ground--
How can I think of scenes like these?
'Tis but the FROST that clears the air, And gives the sky that lovely blue;They're smiling in a WINTER'S sun, Those evergreens of sombre hue.
And winter's chill is on my heart--
How can I dream of future bliss?
How can my spirit soar away, Confined by such a chain as this?
HOME.
How brightly glistening in the sun The woodland ivy plays!
While yonder beeches from their barks Reflect his silver rays.
That sun surveys a lovely scene From softly smiling skies;And wildly through unnumbered trees The wind of winter sighs:
Now loud, it thunders o'er my head, And now in distance dies.
But give me back my barren hills Where colder breezes rise;Where scarce the scattered, stunted trees Can yield an answering swell, But where a wilderness of heath Returns the sound as well.
For yonder garden, fair and wide, With groves of evergreen, Long winding walks, and borders trim, And velvet lawns between;Restore to me that little spot, With gray walls compassed round, Where knotted grass neglected lies, And weeds usurp the ground.
Though all around this mansion high Invites the foot to roam, And though its halls are fair within--
Oh, give me back my HOME!
VANITAS VANITATUM, OMNIA VANITAS.
In all we do, and hear, and see, Is restless Toil and Vanity.
While yet the rolling earth abides, Men come and go like ocean tides;And ere one generation dies, Another in its place shall rise;THAT, sinking soon into the grave, Others succeed, like wave on wave;And as they rise, they pass away.
The sun arises every day, And hastening onward to the West, He nightly sinks, but not to rest:
Returning to the eastern skies, Again to light us, he must rise.
And still the restless wind comes forth, Now blowing keenly from the North;Now from the South, the East, the West, For ever changing, ne'er at rest.
The fountains, gushing from the hills, Supply the ever-running rills;The thirsty rivers drink their store, And bear it rolling to the shore, But still the ocean craves for more.
'Tis endless labour everywhere!
Sound cannot satisfy the ear, Light cannot fill the craving eye, Nor riches half our wants supply, Pleasure but doubles future pain, And joy brings sorrow in her train;Laughter is mad, and reckless mirth--
What does she in this weary earth?
Should Wealth, or Fame, our Life employ, Death comes, our labour to destroy;To snatch the untasted cup away, For which we toiled so many a day.
What, then, remains for wretched man?
To use life's comforts while he can, Enjoy the blessings Heaven bestows, Assist his friends, forgive his foes;Trust God, and keep His statutes still, Upright and firm, through good and ill;Thankful for all that God has given, Fixing his firmest hopes on Heaven;Knowing that earthly joys decay, But hoping through the darkest day.
THE PENITENT.
I mourn with thee, and yet rejoice That thou shouldst sorrow so;With angel choirs I join my voice To bless the sinner's woe.
Though friends and kindred turn away, And laugh thy grief to scorn;I hear the great Redeemer say, "Blessed are ye that mourn."
Hold on thy course, nor deem it strange That earthly cords are riven:
Man may lament the wondrous change, But "there is joy in heaven!"
MUSIC ON CHRISTMAS MORNING.
Music I love--but never strain Could kindle raptures so divine, So grief assuage, so conquer pain, And rouse this pensive heart of mine--
As that we hear on Christmas morn, Upon the wintry breezes borne.
Though Darkness still her empire keep, And hours must pass, ere morning break;From troubled dreams, or slumbers deep, That music KINDLY bids us wake:
It calls us, with an angel's voice, To wake, and worship, and rejoice;To greet with joy the glorious morn, Which angels welcomed long ago, When our redeeming Lord was born, To bring the light of Heaven below;The Powers of Darkness to dispel, And rescue Earth from Death and Hell.
While listening to that sacred strain, My raptured spirit soars on high;I seem to hear those songs again Resounding through the open sky, That kindled such divine delight, In those who watched their flocks by night.
With them I celebrate His birth--