Musings
I.
Life was a difficult journey and beset
With numerous snares, so with a joyful heart
I turned aside from its tumultuous path
To visit the familiar scenes of youth,
The theatre of my childhood's careless sport,
How pleasant for the traveller, who hath grown
A-weary of his long, dull pilgrimage,
To turn his faint and faltering step aside
To boyhood's quiet home, far from the sons of pride.
II.
It was the twilight of a summer's day,
The season's fruitful prime, and as the Eve,
Leaned with a blush upon the breast of Night,
I saw around the hundred well-known friends
That pleased me long ago — here an old hut —
The ruined wall — the moss-grown, ancient well,
And there the aged tree, beneath whose bough
I often sat entranced in boyish dream,
To hear from aged lips some oft-repeated theme.
III.
Methought that time had wrought a marvellous change
Within its peaceful precincts, — the clear brook
No more possessed that sweet and careless tone
That won my boyish ear. Oh! I had launched
Full many a bright and gaily-painted bark
Upon its limpid wave, — and when its prow
Cleaved its swift way amid the islets green
And snowy sands that half-choked up the tide,
My cheering shout would rise and echo far and wide.
IV.
Still Stream! I long have traversed the deep sea
A wanderer on its wild and trackless waste
When my bark shivered like the yellow leaf
In Autumn's fading wood. And yet I turned
From the old ocean's stern magnificence
To muse upon that ever-lulling sound
Thy drowsy waters made in their faint lapse.
I ever deemed that never-ending flow
Resembled childhood's voice, — without a tone of wo.
V.
The cottage door was broken! its thatched roof
Lay on the quenched and long-deserted hearth,
And the dark wall had settled to the ground;
The red stemmed honey-suckle that once clasped
Closely the latticed casement, and bloomed thick,
No more gave out the known delicious smell.
The drowsy brook that whispered at the door
An ever-delicate and untroubled air,
Had shrunk and wandered from its weed-choaked channel there.
VI.
On every thing are traced decay and change.
Look! how the shifting seasons slip away.
First Spring in virgin white, then Summer gay
Apparelled like an emperor in green,
Then Autumn with his crown of golden corn,
And the old shivering Winter, silver-haired,
Pass like the shapes at some grand carnival,
Or like the shadowy pageant of a dream,
And thus the hasty years urge on their dizzy stream.
VII.
Full oft the thrilling merriment of the soul
Is overcast by Sorrow's stormy gloom!
Full oft is Pleasure's brimming chalice drugged
With misery. And Grief's regretful tear
On Glory's golden altar shed! the sob
Is oft the echo to the singer's mirth,
And Pain's half-smothered groan falls on the ear
Like a reproach, when hearts and hopes are high
And man's rejoicing voice exults triumphantly.
VIII.
The verdant wreath that nods on Spring's white brow,
And the thick garlands that old Autumn hangs
High in his dim and awful palaces,
Teach lessons to the pride and pomp of man.
Those leaves on which the yellow sunbeams pour
Their blushing hues, and which the seraph Night
Forever succors with her nourishing dews,
Boast but a brief existence — they all lay
Their pomp aside, and pine and quickly pass away.
IX.
Time's flying wheel leaves little trace behind!
The Stars and yellow Moon do fade away!
Day sinks in darkness, darkness into death,
" Death into silence." The rich pearl of life,
Soon moulders in its blackened urn, the tomb.
E'en while you mark the wavering flame that lights
The snowy whiteness of consumption's cheek,
Death checks Life's scanty current in its way,
And the pure Spirit leaves its tabernacle of clay!
X.
Life's golden cord is loosened, and the bowl
Broken at the well! — Oft the idle Wind
That laughs along man's morning path, doth chant
A mournful dirge above his midnight grave;
And the gay flowers, that charmed him in the Spring
Keep their lone watch beside his marble urn,
Long ere the Autumn-time. Few be the days
Allotted us to live! — We yield our breath,
And soon our mourning brethren join with us in death.
XI.
Soon the pale Scholar learneth that the star
That lured him on, but leadeth to the grave;
And that the images of sombre stain
Are ever with life's tissue bright, inwrought.
And such a one, but yesternight I saw
Placed where Ambition's dream shall vex no more.
He saw the sparkles in life's golden cup,
And fain would deeply of its sweets have quaffed,
But never lived to learn the poison of the draught.
XII.
Departed friend! thy brethren all have passed
From that still spot that sepulchres thy dust
To mingle in earth's noisier scenes, to walk
In life's tumultuous, and thronging path.
Yet as the traveller at the close of day
Will pause to view the darkening landscape round,
O'er which the Day's long pilgrimage had been,
So we, in later years will love to view
In memory's dream, those scenes we walked with you.
XIII.
I oft have sat, at that still hour, when slow
From her dim hall, the purple Twilight stole
And shut the shadowy landscape from the view,
To mark the picture thy warm fancy drew
Of coming life, — its triumph and its joys.
Alas, fond dreamer, all thy colored hopes
Are buried now beneath the Church-yard Stone,
The crumbling mould is now thy narrow bed,
And the rank church-yard weed waves mournfully o'er thy head.
XIV.
E'en Beauty mourns in her decaying bower,
That Time upon her angel brow should set
His crooked autograph, and mar the jet
Of glossy locks. Lo! how her chaplet green,
The hoar frost and the canker worm destroy.
Decay's dull film obscures those matchless eyes,
Tinct with rich azure, like two crystal wells
That drink the blue complexion of the sky.
Alas! in the Grave's shadowy chamber beams no mortal eye,
XX.
Thus do the fair skies brighten and grow dim;
Thus doth the pomp of Nature change away;
Living, then gone — anon revived again —
So do men's idols perish — all we love
And fix our hearts upon pass from our sight,
And in life's moving throng no more are seen,
But unto man alone, there is a hope,
Of a bright deathless being, without end
In that Eternal Home, to which we all do tend.
Life was a difficult journey and beset
With numerous snares, so with a joyful heart
I turned aside from its tumultuous path
To visit the familiar scenes of youth,
The theatre of my childhood's careless sport,
How pleasant for the traveller, who hath grown
A-weary of his long, dull pilgrimage,
To turn his faint and faltering step aside
To boyhood's quiet home, far from the sons of pride.
II.
It was the twilight of a summer's day,
The season's fruitful prime, and as the Eve,
Leaned with a blush upon the breast of Night,
I saw around the hundred well-known friends
That pleased me long ago — here an old hut —
The ruined wall — the moss-grown, ancient well,
And there the aged tree, beneath whose bough
I often sat entranced in boyish dream,
To hear from aged lips some oft-repeated theme.
III.
Methought that time had wrought a marvellous change
Within its peaceful precincts, — the clear brook
No more possessed that sweet and careless tone
That won my boyish ear. Oh! I had launched
Full many a bright and gaily-painted bark
Upon its limpid wave, — and when its prow
Cleaved its swift way amid the islets green
And snowy sands that half-choked up the tide,
My cheering shout would rise and echo far and wide.
IV.
Still Stream! I long have traversed the deep sea
A wanderer on its wild and trackless waste
When my bark shivered like the yellow leaf
In Autumn's fading wood. And yet I turned
From the old ocean's stern magnificence
To muse upon that ever-lulling sound
Thy drowsy waters made in their faint lapse.
I ever deemed that never-ending flow
Resembled childhood's voice, — without a tone of wo.
V.
The cottage door was broken! its thatched roof
Lay on the quenched and long-deserted hearth,
And the dark wall had settled to the ground;
The red stemmed honey-suckle that once clasped
Closely the latticed casement, and bloomed thick,
No more gave out the known delicious smell.
The drowsy brook that whispered at the door
An ever-delicate and untroubled air,
Had shrunk and wandered from its weed-choaked channel there.
VI.
On every thing are traced decay and change.
Look! how the shifting seasons slip away.
First Spring in virgin white, then Summer gay
Apparelled like an emperor in green,
Then Autumn with his crown of golden corn,
And the old shivering Winter, silver-haired,
Pass like the shapes at some grand carnival,
Or like the shadowy pageant of a dream,
And thus the hasty years urge on their dizzy stream.
VII.
Full oft the thrilling merriment of the soul
Is overcast by Sorrow's stormy gloom!
Full oft is Pleasure's brimming chalice drugged
With misery. And Grief's regretful tear
On Glory's golden altar shed! the sob
Is oft the echo to the singer's mirth,
And Pain's half-smothered groan falls on the ear
Like a reproach, when hearts and hopes are high
And man's rejoicing voice exults triumphantly.
VIII.
The verdant wreath that nods on Spring's white brow,
And the thick garlands that old Autumn hangs
High in his dim and awful palaces,
Teach lessons to the pride and pomp of man.
Those leaves on which the yellow sunbeams pour
Their blushing hues, and which the seraph Night
Forever succors with her nourishing dews,
Boast but a brief existence — they all lay
Their pomp aside, and pine and quickly pass away.
IX.
Time's flying wheel leaves little trace behind!
The Stars and yellow Moon do fade away!
Day sinks in darkness, darkness into death,
" Death into silence." The rich pearl of life,
Soon moulders in its blackened urn, the tomb.
E'en while you mark the wavering flame that lights
The snowy whiteness of consumption's cheek,
Death checks Life's scanty current in its way,
And the pure Spirit leaves its tabernacle of clay!
X.
Life's golden cord is loosened, and the bowl
Broken at the well! — Oft the idle Wind
That laughs along man's morning path, doth chant
A mournful dirge above his midnight grave;
And the gay flowers, that charmed him in the Spring
Keep their lone watch beside his marble urn,
Long ere the Autumn-time. Few be the days
Allotted us to live! — We yield our breath,
And soon our mourning brethren join with us in death.
XI.
Soon the pale Scholar learneth that the star
That lured him on, but leadeth to the grave;
And that the images of sombre stain
Are ever with life's tissue bright, inwrought.
And such a one, but yesternight I saw
Placed where Ambition's dream shall vex no more.
He saw the sparkles in life's golden cup,
And fain would deeply of its sweets have quaffed,
But never lived to learn the poison of the draught.
XII.
Departed friend! thy brethren all have passed
From that still spot that sepulchres thy dust
To mingle in earth's noisier scenes, to walk
In life's tumultuous, and thronging path.
Yet as the traveller at the close of day
Will pause to view the darkening landscape round,
O'er which the Day's long pilgrimage had been,
So we, in later years will love to view
In memory's dream, those scenes we walked with you.
XIII.
I oft have sat, at that still hour, when slow
From her dim hall, the purple Twilight stole
And shut the shadowy landscape from the view,
To mark the picture thy warm fancy drew
Of coming life, — its triumph and its joys.
Alas, fond dreamer, all thy colored hopes
Are buried now beneath the Church-yard Stone,
The crumbling mould is now thy narrow bed,
And the rank church-yard weed waves mournfully o'er thy head.
XIV.
E'en Beauty mourns in her decaying bower,
That Time upon her angel brow should set
His crooked autograph, and mar the jet
Of glossy locks. Lo! how her chaplet green,
The hoar frost and the canker worm destroy.
Decay's dull film obscures those matchless eyes,
Tinct with rich azure, like two crystal wells
That drink the blue complexion of the sky.
Alas! in the Grave's shadowy chamber beams no mortal eye,
XX.
Thus do the fair skies brighten and grow dim;
Thus doth the pomp of Nature change away;
Living, then gone — anon revived again —
So do men's idols perish — all we love
And fix our hearts upon pass from our sight,
And in life's moving throng no more are seen,
But unto man alone, there is a hope,
Of a bright deathless being, without end
In that Eternal Home, to which we all do tend.
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