THE COMMON LOT.
ONCE, in the flight of ages past,
There liv'd a man: -and WHO WAS HE?
-Mortal! howe'er thy lot be cast,
That Man resembled Thee.
Unknown the regions of his birth,
The land in which he died unknown:
His name has perish'd from the earth,
This truth survives alone :-
That joy, and grief, and hope, and fear,
Alternate triumph'd in his breast;
His bliss and woe, a smile, a tear!
-Oblivion hides the rest.
The bounding pulse, the languid limb,
The changing spirits' rise and fall;
We know that these were felt by him,
For these are felt by all.
He suffer'd-but his pangs are o'er;
Enjoy'd-but his delights are filed;
Had friends-his friends are now no more;
And foes-his foes are dead.
He lov'd, but whom he lov'd, the grave
Hath lost in its unconscious womb:
O she was fair! but nought could save
Her beauty from the tomb.
He saw whatever thou hast seen;
Encounter'd all that troubles thee:
He was-whatever thou hast been;
He is what thou shalt be.
The rolling seasons, day and night,
Sun, moon, and stars, the earth and main,
Erewhile his portion, life and light,
To him exist in vain.
The clouds and sunbeams, o'er his eye
That once their shades and glory threw,
Have left in yonder silent sky
No vestige where they flew.
The annals of the human race,
Their ruins, since the world began,
Of HIM afford no other trace
Than this, THERE LIVED A MAN!
THE HOUR OF DEATH.
LEAVES have their time to fall,
And flowers to wither at the North-wind's breath, And stars to set-but all,
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O, Death!
Eve for glad meetings round the joyous hearth, Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer; But all for thee, thou Mightiest of the Earth!
The banquet hath its hour,
Its fev'rish hour of mirth, and song, and wine; There comes a day for Grief's o'erwhelming
A time for softer tears-but all are thine!
Youth and the op'ning rose
May look like things too glorious for decay, And smile at thee!-but thou art not of those That wait the ripen'd bloom to seize their prey!
Leaves have their time to fall,
And flowers to wither at the North-wind's breath
And stars to set-but all,
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O, Death
We know when moons shall wane,
When summer-birds from far shall cross the sea,
When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grain;
But who shall teach us when to look for thee?
Is it when spring's first gale
Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie?
Is it when roses in our paths grow pale?
They have one season-all are ours to die!
Thou art where billows foam,
Thou art where music melts upon the air;
Thou art around us in our peaceful home,
And the world calls us forth and thou art there;
Thou art where friend meets friend, Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest; Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest.
Leaves have their time to fall,
And flowers to wither at the North-wind's breath, And stars to set-but all,
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O, Death!
TO THE MEMORY OF A LADY.
"Thou thy worldly task hast done."
HIGH peace to the soul of the dead,
From the dream of the world she has gone;
On the stars in her glory to tread,
To be bright in the blaze of the throne.
In youth she was lovely, and time,
When her rose with the cypress he twined,
Left the heart all the warmth of its prime,
Left her eye all the light of her mind.
The summons came forth and she died!
Yet her parting was gentle, for those
Whom she lov'd, mingled tears at her side-
Her death was the mourner's repose.
Our weakness may weep o'er her bier,
But her spirit has gone on the wing
To triumph for agony here,
To rejoice in the joy of its King.
WHEREFORE do the heathen wage
War against the King of kings,
Whence the people's madd'ning rage
Fraught with vain imaginings?
Haughty chiefs and rulers proud
Forth in banded fury run,
Braving, with defiance loud,
God, and his anointed son!
"Let us break these bands in twain,
Let us cast their cords away;"
But the Highest, with disdain,
Sees and mocks their vain array.
"High on Zion I prepare,
(Thu he speaks,) a regal throne,
Thou, my Prince, my chosen heir,
Rise and claim it as thine own.
"Son of God, with God the same,
Enter thine imperial dome:
Lo! the shaking heavens proclaim,
Mightiest Lord! thy kingdom come.
"Pomp or state dost thou demand?
In thy Father's glory shine;
Dost thou ask for high command?
Lo! the universe is thine."
Ye who spurn his righteous sway,
Yet, oh yet, he spares your breath;
Yet his hand, averse to slay,
Balances the bolt of death.
Ere that dreadful bolt descends,
Haste before his feet to fall;
Kiss the sceptre he extends,
And adore him Lord of all.
Now Spring returns, but not to me returns
The vernal joy my better years have known;
Dim in my breast life's dying taper burns,
And all the joys of life with health are flown.
Starting and shiv'ring in th' inconstant wind,
Meagre and pale, the ghost of what I was,
Beneath some blasted tree I lie reclin'd,
And count the silent moments as they pass.
The winged moments, whose unstaying speed
No art can stop, or in their course arrest;
Whose flight shall shortly count me with the dead,
And lay me down in peace with them that rest.
|