Part 17

So, with a ready heart, I swore To seek their altar-stone no more; And gave my spirit to adore Thee, ever-present, phantom thing-- My slave, my comrade, and my king.

A slave, because I rule thee still; Incline thee to my changeful will, And make thy influence good or ill: A comrade, for by day and night Thou art my intimate delight,--

My darling pain that wounds and sears, And wrings a blessing out from tears By deadening me to earthly cares; And yet, a king, though Prudence well Have taught thy subject to rebel

And am I wrong to worship where Faith cannot doubt, nor hope despair, Since my own soul can grant my prayer? Speak, God of visions, plead for me, And tell why I have chosen thee!

SELF-INTEROGATION,

"The evening passes fast away. 'Tis almost time to rest; What thoughts has left the vanished day, What feelings in thy breast?

"The vanished day? It leaves a sense Of labour hardly done; Of little gained with vast expense-- A sense of grief alone?

"Time stands before the door of Death, Upbraiding bitterly And Conscience, with exhaustless breath, Pours black reproach on me:

"And though I've said that Conscience lies And Time should Fate condemn; Still, sad Repentance clouds my eyes, And makes me yield to them!

"Then art thou glad to seek repose? Art glad to leave the sea, And anchor all thy weary woes In calm Eternity?

"Nothing regrets to see thee go-- Not one voice sobs' farewell;' And where thy heart has suffered so, Canst thou desire to dwell?"

"Alas! the countless links are strong That bind us to our clay; The loving spirit lingers long, And would not pass away!

"And rest is sweet, when laurelled fame Will crown the soldier's crest; But a brave heart, with a tarnished name, Would rather fight than rest.

"Well, thou hast fought for many a year, Hast fought thy whole life through, Hast humbled Falsehood, trampled Fear; What is there left to do?

"'Tis true, this arm has hotly striven, Has dared what few would dare; Much have I done, and freely given, But little learnt to bear!

"Look on the grave where thou must sleep Thy last, and strongest foe; It is endurance not to weep, If that repose seem woe.

"The long war closing in defeat-- Defeat serenely borne,-- Thy midnight rest may still be sweet, And break in glorious morn!"

DEATH.

Death! that struck when I was most confiding. In my certain faith of joy to be-- Strike again, Time's withered branch dividing From the fresh root of Eternity!

Leaves, upon Time's branch, were growing brightly, Full of sap, and full of silver dew; Birds beneath its shelter gathered nightly; Daily round its flowers the wild bees flew.

Sorrow passed, and plucked the golden blossom; Guilt stripped off the foliage in its pride But, within its parent's kindly bosom, Flowed for ever Life's restoring tide.

Little mourned I for the parted gladness, For the vacant nest and silent song-- Hope was there, and laughed me out of sadness; Whispering, "Winter will not linger long!"

And, behold! with tenfold increase blessing, Spring adorned the beauty-burdened spray; Wind and rain and fervent heat, caressing, Lavished glory on that second May!

High it rose--no winged grief could sweep it; Sin was scared to distance with its shine; Love, and its own life, had power to keep it From all wrong--from every blight but thine!

Cruel Death! The young leaves droop and languish; Evening's gentle air may still restore-- No! the morning sunshine mocks my anguish- Time, for me, must never blossom more!

Strike it down, that other boughs may flourish Where that perished sapling used to be; Thus, at least, its mouldering corpse will nourish That from which it sprung--Eternity.

STANZAS TO ----

Well, some may hate, and some may scorn, And some may quite forget thy name; But my sad heart must ever mourn Thy ruined hopes, thy blighted fame! 'Twas thus I thought, an hour ago, Even weeping o'er that wretch's woe; One word turned back my gushing tears, And lit my altered eye with sneers. Then "Bless the friendly dust," I said, "That hides thy unlamented head! Vain as thou wert, and weak as vain, The slave of Falsehood, Pride, and Pain-- My heart has nought akin to thine; Thy soul is powerless over mine." But these were thoughts that vanished too; Unwise, unholy, and untrue: Do I despise the timid deer, Because his limbs are fleet with fear? Or, would I mock the wolf's death-howl, Because his form is gaunt and foul? Or, hear with joy the leveret's cry, Because it cannot bravely die? No! Then above his memory Let Pity's heart as tender be; Say, "Earth, lie lightly on that breast, And, kind Heaven, grant that spirit rest!"