Part 65

Shakspeare.

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Romans now Have thews and limbs like to their ancestors; But, wo the while! our fathers’ minds are dead, And we are governed with our mother’s spirits; Our yoke and sufferance show us womanish.

Shakspeare.

* * * * *

E’en liberty itself is bartered here. At gold’s superior charms all freedom flies, The needy sell it, and the rich man buys; A land of tyrants, and a den of slaves, Here wretches seek dishonourable graves, And, calmly bent, to servitude conform, Dull as their lakes that slumber in the storm.

Goldsmith.

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Yet, still the loss of wealth is here supplied By arts, the splendid wrecks of former pride; From these the feeble heart and long-fallen mind An easy compensation seem to find. Here may be seen, in bloodless pomp arrayed, The pasteboard triumph and the cavalcade; Processions formed for piety and love, A mistress or a saint in every grove. By sports like these are all their cares beguiled, The sports of children satisfy the child; Each nobler aim, repressed by long control, Now sinks at last, or feebly mans the soul; While low delights, succeeding fast behind, In happier meanness occupy the mind: As in those domes, where Cæsars once bore sway, Defaced by time and tottering in decay, There in the ruin, heedless of the dead, The shelter-seeking peasant builds his shed; And, wondering man could want the larger pile, Exults, and owns his cottage with a smile.

Goldsmith.

FIR.... Time.

What does not fade? the tower, that long had stood The crush of thunder and the warring winds, Shook by the slow, but sure destroyer, Time, Now hangs in doubtful ruins o’er its base, And flinty pyramids and walls of brass Descend; the Babylonian spires are sunk; Achaia, Rome, and Egypt moulder down. Time shakes the stable tyranny of thrones, And tottering empires crush by their own weight.

Armstrong.

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The clock upon the mantel-piece is ticking; Thus hour by hour it tolls a funeral chime: By day and night its calm and constant clicking Denotes the speed of the old traveller Time. It is a solemn voice. Who hath an ear To hear its warning accents, let him hear, And preparation make to meet the day When he, alone, shall lie upon the brink Of human life, and death shall bid him drink The hemlock cup that none can put away. What though man turn from the unwelcome theme, Will Time sit still for man’s forgetfulness?-- To watch and wake were wiser than to dream And wake at last to wo remediless.

MacKellar.

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The world’s great age begins anew, The golden years return, The earth doth like a snake renew Her winter weeds outworn: Heaven smiles, and faiths and empires gleam Like wrecks of a dissolving dream. A brighter Hellas rears its mountains From waves serener far; A new Peneus rolls its fountains Against the morning-star. Where fairer Tempes bloom, there sleep Young Cyclads, on a sunnier deep; A loftier Argos cleaves the main, Fraught with a later prize; Another Orpheus sings again, And loves, and weeps, and dies. A new Ulysses leaves once more Calypso for his native shore. Oh, write no more the tale of Troy, If earth Death’s scroll must be! Nor mix with Laian rage the joy Which dawns upon the free: Although a subtile sphinx renew Riddles of death Thebes never knew, Another Athens shall arise, And to remoter time Bequeath, like sunset to the skies, The splendour of its prime; And leave, if naught so bright may live, All earth can take or heaven can give. Saturn and Love their long repose Shall burst, more wise and good Than all who fell, than one who rose, Than many unwithstood-- Not gold, nor blood, their altar dowers, But native tears and symbol flowers. Oh cease! must hate and death return? Cease! must men kill and die? Cease! drain not to its dregs the urn Of bitter prophecy. The world is weary of the past-- Oh, might it die or rest at last!

Shelley.

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Time past and time to come are not-- Time present is our only lot; O God, henceforth our hearts incline To seek no other love than thine!

Montgomery.

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Then haste thee, Time--’tis kindness all That speeds thy winged feet so fast; Thy pleasures stay not till they pall, And all thy pains are quickly past.

Bryant.

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Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his back, Wherein he puts alms for oblivion, A great-sized monster of ingratitudes: Those scraps are good deeds past: which are devoured As fast as they are made, forgotten as soon As done.

Shakspeare.