  ***'Le poÉte est homme par les sens Homme par la douleur!*** L'argile pÉrissable oÙ tant d'Âme palpite, Se faÇonne plus belle, et se brise plus vite; Le nectar est divin, mais le vase est mortel; C'est un Dieu dont le poids doit Écraser l'autel; C'est un souffle trop plein du soin ou de l'aurore, Qui fait chanter le vent dans un roseau sonore, Mais, qui brisÉ de son, le jette au bord de l'eau, Comme un chaume sÉchÉ battu sous le flÉau!' Lamartine. Thou dark-eyed, pensive, passionate child of song! Enthusiast! dreamer! worshipper of things By the world's crowd unnoticed, 'mid the throng Of beautiful creations, Nature flings The sunlight of existence o'er! The wings Of the rude tempest are not half so strong As thy proud hopes—thy wild imaginings: Stop! ere their bold and sacrilegious flight Reach a too-dazzling height! Venturing sunward, till the flashing eye Of reason, grown deliriously bright, Kindle to madness, and to idiocy; And, from excessive light To hideous blindness fall, and tenfold night! Stop! melancholy youth! Though bright and sparkling be the tide of song, And many a sunbeam o'er its waters dance Meanderingly along— Though it be heaven to quaff of—yet, in truth, A deadlier venom taints its gay expanse, More deep, more strong, Than to the subtlest poison doth belong! A very demon haunts its foetid air, Infatuating with its serpent glance The wanderer there; And, with a sad but most bewitching smile, Luring the credulous one to its desire: Stirring new feelings, passions, hopes awhile, And burning thoughts, whose mad, unholy fire, With its own strength illumes its own funereal pyre! Stop, if thou'dst live!—or hath life left for thee No charms, that thou its last terrific scene Shouldst with such passion worship? Can it be, That the world nothing hath thou'dst care to win? No gem, no flower, no loveliness, unseen? No wonder unexplored? no mystery, Still undeveloped to the eagle eye Of Genius, or of PoËsy? Where are the depths of the dark, billowy sea? Its peopling millions—its gigantic chain Of gorgeous, glittering waters—wild as free? Where the big-orbÉd sun—the blue-veiled sky? And its magnificent, diamond-glittering mine Of ever-burning stars? Oh! can it be, (Thou fond idolater at every shrine Where beauty lingers,) can it be that thou Hast treasured up earth's glorious things, till now Thou deem'st it uselessness to turn. Some unfamiliar object to discern, And so Her loveliest features unregarded go? Away, vain thought! such phrenzy ne'er were thine! Since, in the humblest, homeliest flower that grows— Thy very life-breath, as it comes and goes— There are a thousand things, whose origin, Whose secret springs, and impulses divine, No human art nor wisdom can disclose! Stop, then, sad youth! for life is not all care, But, hath its hours of rosy-lipped delight; While the cold grave hath little save despair, The weary, world-worn spirit to invite. Stop! I conjure thee! bid the muse away! Her fatal gifts relinquish or resign; Her haughty mandates heed not nor obey: E'en now thy brow hath sorrow's pallid sign— Thine eye, though bright, is like the flickering ray Of a 'stray sunbeam, o'er some ruin'd shrine,' Lighting up vestiges almost divine, In sad, yet, dimly-beautiful decay! Thy cheek is sunken, and the fickle play Of the faint smile that curls thy parted lip Hath something fearful in it, though so gay! A something treacherously calm, and deep, Such as on sunny waters seems to sleep, When hid beneath some passing shadows gray, The subtle storm-fiend watches for his prey. Stop! ere thine hour of dalliance be over; Ere Health abandon thee, and quench her light In the dark stream of death, (the faithless rover!) Ere Hope herself take flight Down to the depths of that dark-flowing river, Whose sombre shores are clothed in endless night; Ere thou be wrested from us—and for ever! Blotted, like some loved planet, from our sight! And, save the ties That not e'en Destiny itself can sever, A feeble reminiscence or a name Be all thou leav'st us of thee 'neath the skies— Or some rude stone, perchance, to greet our eyes, And, with its speechless eloquence proclaim: 'Here lies Another victim to thy love, O Fame!' Philadelphia, 1837. |
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