Part 3 (1/2)
THE GREATNESS OF THE WORLD.
Through the world which the Spirit creative and kind First formed out of chaos, I fly like the wind, Until on the strand Of its billows I land, My anchor cast forth where the breeze blows no more, And Creation's last boundary stands on the sh.o.r.e.
I saw infant stars into being arise, For thousands of years to roll on through the skies; I saw them in play Seek their goal far away,-- For a moment my fugitive gaze wandered on,-- I looked round me, and lo!--all those bright stars had flown!
Madly yearning to reach the dark kingdom of night.
I boldly steer on with the speed of the light; All misty and drear The dim heavens appear, While embryo systems and seas at their source Are whirling around the sun-wanderer's course.
When sudden a pilgrim I see drawing near Along the lone path,--”Stay! What seekest thou here?”
”My bark, tempest-tossed, I sail toward the land where the breeze blows no more, And Creation's last boundary stands on the sh.o.r.e.”
”Stay, thou sailest in vain! 'Tis INFINITY yonder!”-- ”'Tis INFINITY, too, where thou, pilgrim, wouldst wander!
Eagle-thoughts that aspire, Let your proud pinions tire!
For 'tis here that sweet phantasy, bold to the last, Her anchor in hopeless dejection must cast!”
FORTUNE AND WISDOM.
Enraged against a quondam friend, To Wisdom once proud Fortune said ”I'll give thee treasures without end, If thou wilt be my friend instead.”
”My choicest gifts to him I gave, And ever blest him with my smile; And yet he ceases not to crave, And calls me n.i.g.g.ard all the while.”
”Come, sister, let us friends.h.i.+p vow!
So take the money, nothing loth; Why always labor at the plough?
Here is enough I'm sure for both!”
Sage wisdom laughed,--the prudent elf!-- And wiped her brow, with moisture hot: ”There runs thy friend to hang himself,-- Be reconciled--I need thee not!”
ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG MAN. [5]
Mournful groans, as when a tempest lowers, Echo from the dreary house of woe; Death-notes rise from yonder minster's towers!
Bearing out a youth, they slowly go; Yes! a youth--unripe yet for the bier, Gathered in the spring-time of his days, Thrilling yet with pulses strong and clear, With the flame that in his bright eye plays-- Yes, a son--the idol of his mother, (Oh, her mournful sigh shows that too well!) Yes! my bosom-friend,--alas my brother!-- Up! each man the sad procession swell!
Do ye boast, ye pines, so gray and old, Storms to brave, with thunderbolts to sport?
And, ye hills, that ye the heavens uphold?
And, ye heavens, that ye the suns support!
Boasts the graybeard, who on haughty deeds As on billows, seeks perfection's height?
Boasts the hero, whom his prowess leads Up to future glory's temple bright!
If the gnawing worms the floweret blast, Who can madly think he'll ne'er decay?
Who above, below, can hope to last, If the young man's life thus fleets away?
Joyously his days of youth so glad Danced along, in rosy garb beclad, And the world, the world was then so sweet!
And how kindly, how enchantingly Smiled the future,--with what golden eye Did life's paradise his moments greet!
While the tear his mother's eye escaped, Under him the realm of shadows gaped And the fates his thread began to sever,-- Earth and Heaven then vanished from his sight.
From the grave-thought shrank he in affright-- Sweet the world is to the dying ever!
Dumb and deaf 'tis in that narrow place, Deep the slumbers of the buried one!
Brother! Ah, in ever-slackening race All thy hopes their circuit cease to run!
Sunbeams oft thy native hill still lave, But their glow thou never more canst feel; O'er its flowers the zephyr's pinions wave, O'er thine ear its murmur ne'er can steal; Love will never tinge thine eye with gold, Never wilt thou embrace thy blooming bride, Not e'en though our tears in torrents rolled-- Death must now thine eye forever hide!