Classic Poem

Ye short-liv'd flowers, though swift ye pass away,
Compassion weeps not o'er your withering state:
Ye fade, but all unconscious of decay;
Ye fall, but fear not, as ye drop, your fate.

Nor yet, ye wildly tuneful, plumy throng,
Plains my sad lay, o'er your mortality!
Though Death's black hour so soon must end your song,
Careless ye sing, nor know that hour is nigh.

Nor mourn I you, ye flocks, though brief your life:
What though to-morrow ye be doom'd to bleed?
To-day your bliss is pure; no shadowy knife
Haunts your serene contentment as ye feed.

Stretch'd on the grass ye view your brother lie,
Bereav'd of motion and devoid of breath;
Heedless ye pass the prostrate carcase by,
Or stupid gaze, nor understand the death.

'Tis man alone demands the Muse's sigh;
O'er man her pity sheds its tenderest shower:
Of all the countless tribes that round him die,
The only prophet of his final hour!

In each shrunk leaf he sees the flower display,
Each falling sun that sinks to ocean's bed,
He notes how swift his bloom shall fade away!
He marks how low his glory shall be laid!

In Art's or Nature's fading kingdom shown,
Each sad decline that meets his pensive eye,
(Expressive hint and picture of his own!)
Draws, as he views it, from his breast a sigh!

To him who, thus, to life's approaching close,
Is doom'd his mournful prospect to extend,
Ah, sure, in justice, equal Nature owes
A life where Foresight shall descry no end!

Can this short span of being be his all?
Must minds, whose wishes shoot beyond the tomb,
Dash their bruis'd frames against Confinement's wall,
And droop, the prisoners of so scant a room?

Say, must I toil, year following year, to slay,
In all their coarser or their subtler forms,
The various follies on my peace that prey,
Only at length to fall the prey of worms?

When love of knowledge most intense shall glow,
When most I value reason's precious light,
Then, must I cease, for ever cease, to know?
Then, reason's lamp go out in endless night?

Heav'n's beauteous works, with clearer view survey'd,
When with devouter awe mine eyes adore,
Shall their fair object from before them sade,
And I admire those beauteous works no more?

Or was I form'd, a vain desire to feel
Of lovely truths their radiant face that hide?
Truths that to me their charms must ne'er unveil?
For ever to my longing eyes denied?

While the brute tribes, with happier dulness blest,
No painful sense of straiten'd knowledge show;
In easy ign'rance all incurious rest,
Content, their fellows and their food to know;

Was I inform'd with this more stirring mind,
To mourn a night no dawn shall e'er remove?
Seeking a day I ne'er am doom'd to find,
With anxious, fruitless steps ordain'd to rove?

To paint th' alluring form of social weal,
Where minds, in order moving, all agree,
And, in sweet chime, the silver spheres excel;
Yet ne'er, in act, the lovely picture see?

To spend my soul in life-consuming sighs,
That men on men with savage rage should prey;
Nor hope to see a fairer scene arise,
Whose smiling image shall my pains repay?

The noblest want which Nature knows to raise,
Say, shall she leave alone without its food?
Leave, while each lower thirst her care allays,
Unslak'd the lofty wish for boundless good?

While for each humbler power, her hands have made,
Those hands a field of ample scope prepare,
For oary fins while watery paths are spread,
For winnowing wings, the liquid plains of air;

Shall souls, equipp'd with wondrous powers to fly
Through the vast tracts of Truth's and Virtue's reign,
Be ne'er allow'd to sail that glorious sky,
Cag'd in this narrow life, and wing'd in vain?

Cease, cease, my song, to mourn the lot of man!
Revoke the murmur, and recal the tear!
It cannot be, that Nature's faultless pla
To him alone denies a suited sphere.

The eagle pinions of this active mind,
Though now a little space enclose their flights,
At length the firmament, they ask, shall find;
And soar, without control, celestial heights.