STANZAS. APRIL, 1814. AWAY! the moor is dark beneath the moon, Rapid clouds have drank the last pale beam of even : Away! the gathering winds will call the darkness soon, And profoundest midnight shroud the serene lights of heaven. Pause not! The time is past! Every voice cries, Away! Tempt not with one last tear thy friend's ungentle mood: Thy lover's eye, so glazed and cold, dares not entreat thy stay: Duty and dereliction guide thee back to solitude. Away, away! to thy sad and silent home; Pour bitter tears on its desolated hearth; Watch the dim shades as like ghosts they go and come, And complicate strange webs of melancholy mirth. The leaves of wasted autumn woods shall float around thine head: The blooms of dewy spring shall gleam beneath thy feet: But thy soul or this world must fade in the frost that binds the dead, Ere midnight's frown and morning's smile, ere thou and peace may meet. The cloud shadows of midnight possess their own repose, For the weary winds are silent, or the moon is in the deep: Some respite to its turbulence unresting ocean knows ; Whatever moves, or toils, or grieves, hath its appointed sleep. Thou in the grave shalt rest yet till the phantoms flee Which that house and heath and garden made dear to thee erewhile, Thy remembrance, and repentance, and deep musings are not free From the music of two voices and the light of one sweet smile. MUTABILITY. WE are as clouds that veil the midnight moon; Night closes round, and they are lost for ever: Or like forgotten lyres, whose dissonant strings We rest. A dream has power to poison sleep; It is the same! For, be it joy or sorrow, The path of its departure still is free: Man's yesterday may ne'er be like his morrow; THERE IS NO WORK, NOR DEVICE, NOR KNOWLEDGE, NOR WISDOM, IN THE GRAVE, WHITHER THOU GOEST. Ecclesiastes. THE pale, the cold, and the moony smile Ere the dawning of morn's undoubted light, That flits round our steps till their strength is gone. O man! hold thee on in courage of soul Through the stormy shades of thy worldly way, And the billows of cloud that around thee roll Shall sleep in the light of a wondrous day, Where hell and heaven shall leave thee free To the universe of destiny. This world is the nurse of all we know, This world is the mother of all we feel, And the coming of death is a fearful blow To a brain unencompassed with nerves of steel; When all that we know, or feel, or see, Shall pass like an unreal mystery. The secret things of the grave are there, Who telleth a tale of unspeaking death? With the fears and the love for that which we see? A SUMMER-EVENING CHURCH-YARD. LECHLADE, GLOUCESTERSHIRE. THE wind has swept from the wide atmosphere Creep hand in hand from yon obscurest glen. |