Classic Poem

For the 29th Anniversary of that Institution.

Thro ' all the winding labyrinths of fate,
At every season, and in every state,
Whether the Alpine heights of life we scale,
Or, unambitious, tread its lowliest vale —
Whether the fires of Youth, or frosts of Age,
Burn in the soul, or chill its ardent rage; —
Who has not felt the spells which Genius flings,
Involving all within their magic rings
Till spirits of a purer, happier sphere,
Wave their soft wings, and scatter fragrance here?
Who has not known the witcheries that belong
To the light Narrative, the sprightly Song,
The tale of other times with wonders rife,
" Fierce wars, and faithful loves, " — repose and strife;
These light the eye of pleasure, — these beguile
E'en Sorrow's wither'd visage of a smile;
Chain the rebellious heart, and bid it be
The subject of their gentle tyranny.
Like Stars that on Heaven's ample forehead glow,
Yet shew their brightness in the lake below;
So Genius shines, tho' Heav'n-inspir'd its beam,
The light and lustre of life's lowly stream.
And shall its brilliancy, at random thrown,
Gild every walk of being but its own?
And like the lonely taper waste its light,
In making every object near it bright,
While round itself a gloom and shadow dwell,
Which not its own warm glory can dispel:
No, rather let each heart it shines on, blaze
Like a pure mirror in its kindling rays,
And render back the brilliance borrow'd thence
In brighter tributes of benevolence.
Ah! who can speak the evils numberless
Which on the mind-ennobled spirit press?
Oft where the bay should bloom, see cypress wave,
And Genius slumb'ring in an early grave.
Feelings too fervent waste the heart they warm,
And a wide void of aching sorrow form;
Like April show'rs, that fall too fast and sure
And wash away the seeds they should mature.
Oft, too, gaunt Poverty's relentless tread,
Crushes the buds before their beauties spread;
And oft a sterner visitant appears,
The demon Madness life's fair prospect sears,
Breathes an unholy dew on each soft flower,
And blights the promise of the vernal hour.
Poor child of Genius! Fortune's glitt'ring toy,
Born to adorn the world but not enjoy!
For praise he toils, and e'en for that poor prize
Oft toils in vain, or fate the boon denies
Till tardy laurels deck his mould'ring head,
And Fame, that cheats the living, mocks the dead.
Fame, that vain echo of an empty blast,
That rainbow symbol of a storm that's past,
Which, when that storm has seal'd the suff'rer's doom,
Extends its arch of beauty o'er his Tomb!
Shall such scenes last? — no, let each gen'rous breast
Aid to avert — the deed shall be " twice blest; "
For never yet did melting charity
Lose, when it sooth'd the pangs of misery.
There breathes a fragrance from the grateful heart,
Which to the gen'rous mind it will impart;
E'en as the Rose, when it heav'n's dew receives,
Sweetens the drops that settle on its leaves.
Yes it must be — the tree the generous zeal
Of W ILLIAMS planted for the public weal
Shall take deep root, and flourish broad and hig
Beneath a genial clime, a cloudless sky,
And the warm sun of fost'ring Royalty.
And Oh! not distant be the hour which sheds
Flowers only on the path where Genius treads,
That when his lyre's harmonious numbers flow,
The saddest note may be fictitious woe.