129. DEATH.
[From THE GRAVE.]
shocking must thy summons be, O Death,
To him that is at ease in his possessions;
Who counting on long years of pleasure here,
Is quite unfurnish'd for that world to come!
In that dread moment, how the frantic soul
Raves round the walls of her clay tenement,
Runs to each avenue, and shrieks for help,
But shrieks in vain! How wishfully she looks
On all she's leaving, now no longer hers!
A little longer, yet a little longer,
Oh, might she stay, to wash away her stains,
And fit her for her passage! Mournful sight!
Her very eyes weep blood; and every groan
She heaves is big with horror: but the foe,
Like a staunch murd'rer, steady to his purpose,
Pursues her close through every lane of life,
Nor misses once the track, but presses on;
Till, forced at last to the tremendous verge,
At once she sinks to everlasting ruin.
Sure, 'tis a serious thing to die, my soul!
What a strange moment must it be, when, near
Thy journey's end, thou hast the gulf in view-
That awful gulf no mortal e'er repass'd,
To tell what's doing on the other side!
If death were nothing, and nought after death;
If, when men die, at once they ceased to be,
Returning to the barren womb of nothing,
Whence first they sprung; then might the debauchee Untrembling mouth the heavens: then might the drunkard
Reel over his full bowl, and, when 'tis drain'd,
Fill up another to the brim, and laugh
At the poor bugbear Death: then might the wretch
That's weary of the world, and tired of life,
At once give each inquietude the slip,
By stealing out of being when he pleased,
And by what way, whether by hemp or steel,
Death's thousand doors stand open. Who could force
The ill-pleased guest to sit out his full time,
Or blame him if he goes? Sure he does well,
That helps himself as timely as he can,
When able. But if there's an hereafter;
(And that there is, conscience, uninfluenced,
And suffer'd to speak out, tells ev'ry man;)
Then must it be an awful thing to die.
130. LIGHT FOR ALL.
OU cannot pay with money
The million sons of toil
The sailor on the ocean,
The peasant on the soil,
The labourer in the quarry,
The hewer of the coal;
Your money pays the hand,
But it cannot pay the soul.
You gaze on the cathedral,
Whose turrets meet the sky;
Remember the foundations
That in earth and darkness lie:
For, were not those foundations
So darkly resting there,
Yon towers could never soar
So proudly in the air.
The workshop must be crowded
That the palace may be bright;
If the ploughman did not plough,
Then the poet could not write.
Then let every toil be hallow'd,
That man performs for man,
And have its share of honour
As part of one great plan.
See, light darts down from heaven,
And enters where it may;
The eyes of all earth's people
Are cheer'd with one bright day.
And let the mind's true sunshine
Be spread o'er earth as free,
And fill the souls of men
As the waters fill the sea.
131. THE KING ENVYING THE PEASANT
H me! methinks it were a happy life
To sit upon a hill, as I do now;
To carve out dials quaintly, point by point;
Thereby to see the minutes how they run;
How many make the hour full complete;
How many hours bring about the day;
How many days will finish up the year;
How many years a mortal man may live.
When this is known, then to divide the times:
So many hours must I attend my flock;
So many hours must I take rest;
So many hours must I sport myself;
So many days my ewes have been with young;
So many weeks ere the poor things will yean;
So many years ere I shall sheer the fleece:
Thus minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years,
Pass'd over to the end they were created,
Would bring white hairs into a quiet grave.
Ah what a life were this! how sweet! how lovely!
Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade
To shepherds, looking on their silly sheep,
Than doth a rich embroider'd canopy
To kings that fear their subjects' treachery?
O yes it doth; a thousand-fold it doth.
And to conclude, -the shepherd's homely curds,
His cold thin drink out of his leather bottle,
His wonted sleep under a fresh tree's shade,-
All which secure and sweetly he enjoys,-
Is far beyond a prince's delicates,
His viands sparkling in a golden cup,
His body couched in a curious bed,
When care, mistrust, and treason wait on him.
132. THE VOICE OF SPRING.
ICOM, Jer the mountains with light and song;
Ye
may trace my step o'er the waking earth,
By the winds which tell of the violet's birth,
By the primrose stars in the shadowy grass,
By the green leaves opening as I pass.
I have breathed on the South, and the chestnut flowers,
By thousands, have burst from the forest-bowers,
And the ancient graves, and the fallen fanes,
Are veil'd with wreaths on Italian plains.
-But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom,
To speak of the ruin or the tomb !
I have pass'd o'er the hill of the stormy North,
And the larch has hung all his tassels forth;
The fisher is out on the sunny sea,
And the rein-deer bounds through the pasture free,
And the pine has a fringe of softer green,
And the moss looks bright where my step has been.
I have sent through the wood-paths a gentle sigh,
And call'd out each voice of the deep-blue sky,
From the night-bird's lay through the starry-time,
In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime,
To the swan's wild note by the Iceland lakes,
When the dark fir-bough into verdure breaks.
From the streams and founts I have loosed the chain;
They are sweeping on to the silvery main,
They are flashing down from the mountain-brows,
They are flinging spray on the forest boughs,
|