With roses decked, and myrtles crown'd, And sparkling to the brim;
For O! his foot has not yet tried
The path which mine hath trod,
Nor hath his young heart framed a wish He might not give to God.
And yet I will not think it-no!
It will not cannot be,
That fate shall ever fling its shroud
Of blackness over thee;
Thou art too like thy mother, child-
She would not harm this breast,
And all thy days have been too like
The peaceful and the bless'd;
Thou can'st not other be to me
Than this, my cradle joy-
Thou wilt not grieve thy father's heart,
My smiling little boy.
THEN to this most unseemly dwelling place
This then's the fate of man.
His hopes and dreams of greatness; his resolves,
His grandeur, and his expectations all;
This, the cold grave, hath power to circumscribe
And crush at once. He must surrender back
His aspirations, schemes, and toils of years,
And lay him down as lowly as the slave—
O, what are they all worth!
The solemn dreams, the god-like aspirations,
High hopes, and fancies, which do come to us,
And mingle with our poor humanity
What do they purchase? Tell me, thou who wearest
The laurel; thou who dost lay down at eve,
And know thou art a favorite with the world;
Know that its great and gifted bow to thee,
And do thee homage; that the young, and pure,
And beautiful, too, pray for thy happiness,
And treasure up thine image as a spell,
In the deep fountains of their tenderness-
What do they purchase? Do they bring to thee
Contentment, and exemption from the woes
That wait on other men? Do they bring peace?
Bring they a heart well suited with its own,
And with the world? Bring they that certainty,
And full fruition of delight, that thrill
To the heart's center? Do they bring the hope,
Which, when Death tugs in the strong holds of Life,
And this frail tenement shall crumble off,
Leaving the spirit naked; then, transfused,
Shall bear the renovated essence up
To a new world, where faith and Christian hope
Bear the believer? Tell me, do they this?
Then wherefore seek them? Why, mad for the gauds,
And transitory tinselry of earth,
When there's a solemn work for thee to do,
And that work not begun? Will it be less,
That thou-the day of grace push'd further off-
Trifle awhile with judgment, death, and hell,
Choose light for darkness, feed thyself with husks,
When thou art dying for the bread of life?
Will it be less that thou wear out thy years-
Thy young, best years, in service of the world,
And give thy woes to God?
Around, above, beneath thee!
And thou hast thoughts, and giant faculties!
Thou dost walk forth upon the breast of earth,(17)
An active, thinking, animated soul;
And gather from the wonders of the scene—
The sea, the air, the sky, and the round worlds,
And inapproachable orbs, that, wheeling on,
Do sound forth our great immortality'—
A something which should make thee holier,
Fill thee with generous feelings, sympathies,
And all the virtues of humanity!
But there's a magic in that word, applause,
Which drowns the voice of wisdom in thine ears;
And hence thou dost walk forth upon the scene,
And hear the roar of waters, and the sounds
That Nature sends up from her thousand depths;
And thou dost love them only as the means,
By which thou wouldst stand with the titled ones,
And god-like, and would write thyself-immortal!
Oh, granted, that thou purchase a bright name!
Granted, that thou stand up with the titled ones!
Yet thou must die! Others have tried the path-
Have stood where thy proud fancy hurries thee,
Call'd themselves gods, and aped their majesty ;
Have struggled for bays and triumphs, built themselves
Proud mausoleums, and given them their own names;
And they, too, died! Ay, rotted in the dust,
Where thou shalt lie and rot, until the earth
Rouses her myriads to the general doom!
Yea! thou shalt take thy place in the dark breast
Of this, thy mother earth, that nourish'd thee,
And after generations seek in vain,
To tell their children thine abiding place
Here is a place of tombs,
A mighty congregation of the dead ;
And here beneath this melancholy shade,
I lie and listen to the solemn voice,
company of graves,
'Tis a solemn place!
For this dark purple loam, whereon I lie,
And this green mould, the mother of bright flowers, Were bone and sinew once, now decomposed;
Perhaps have lived, breathed, walked as proud as we; And animate with all the faculties,
And finer senses of the human soul!
And now, what are they? to their elements
Each has return'd, dust crumbled back to dust,
Ha! a loud stir-
The murmur of forgotten generations!
And ah! methinks they were not like our own.
At least we trust less guilt and wretchedness,
Less of the evils that in corrupt hearts
Gender and fall like mildews upon men,
Stain'd the bright record of their history.
And yet they were the same! That doleful cry,
As of some famish'd widowed one-that wail
Of shivering orphans threaten'd from the doors
Of splendid Affluence-that miser's cry,
So fitly mingled with the midnight curse
The robber uttereth-that piercing shriek,
As if press'd out from some o'erloaded heart
By deep affliction-these, all these are ours;
And they do witness with tremendous force,
That solemn truth, that men have been accursed
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