Classic Poem

This silent glen, this silent glen,
O how I love its solitude!
Far from those busy haunts of men,
Far from the heartless multitude.
No eye, save Nature's sovereign beam;
No breath, but heaven's, to break the dream;
No voice, but yonder babbling stream,
Dares on the ear intrude.
The peace—the peace of graves is here;
O that it would but last!
But Man lives like the waning year,
Till joy's last leaf is past:
His bliss, like autumn-plants, of power
To flourish for a transient hour,
Ere the bud ripens to a flower
Dies on the wintry blast.

Yon Alder tree—see, how she courts
The zephyrs as they stray;
Yet every breeze with which she sports
Scatters a leaf away:
So Man will wreaths of Pleasure crave,
Tho' with each flower a thorn she gave,
And the last leaves him in the grave,
To coldness and decay!

How fearfully that hollow blast
Raved round the mountains hoar;
Ruffled the wave, in fury pass'd
The heath—and was no more!
Such is the fame of mortal man—
In pride and fury it began,
Yet sooner e'en than life's brief span
The empty noise was o'er.

And e'en to those for whom is spread
Joy's banquet richly crowned,
This world is but a gorgeous bed,
Where, in fast slumber bound,
Pomp's gaudy trappings spread beneath,
They dream away life's fleeting breath,
Till night comes closing in, and Death
Draws his dark drapery round.