LAMENT.

The years draw nigh when thou shalt say,

I have no pleasure. Eccles.

1.

Years are coming hither

When this heart so gay,

Much I fear will wither!

Youth is gone away.

Men are brothers—brothers!

Oh! I tremble then,

Lest I grow as others

Of my fellow-men.

2.

Those of whims and wrinkles,

Once were blithe as I;

Heads that frost besprinkles,

Once look’d bonnily;

And where winter lingers

Upon the old man’s curls,

Have play’d the taper fingers

Of well-beloved girls.

3.

Oh, must the years come on me

When these are no delight!

Must frost-work fall upon me,

And deadliness and blight;

This heart that loves the summer,

Be chilly as the cold;

And I be dim, and dumber

Than the mummies of the Old!

4.

And am I surely growing

In soul and senses seal’d,

Like him who, all unknowing,

Is frozen and congeal’d!

I know it—ah, I know it;

Of all the world ’tis true;

And the fibres of the poet

Must break—or toughen too.

5.

Thank God with all my spirit

For my only, only cheer,

Since I learn’d that I inherit

A destiny so drear.

But now I care not for it,

And welcome is the grave;

Oh why should I abhor it,

Since only it can save!

6.

I’ve seen a worm that weaveth

His shroud as with delight;

Then sleeps, as who believeth,

He only bids good night.

Then up again he springeth,

A wing’d and elfin form;

Away, away he wingeth,

An angel from a worm!

7.

Wise worm! and I, his brother,

Will learn from him to live!

A lesson that no other

So beautiful can give.

Oh, weave in life thy swathing,

And then in Christ repose!

Who maketh life a plaything

Is born to many woes.