  ABSENCE. Earth owns no smiles in absence of the sun; Dark mourns the night when chambered is her queen; The sweet flowers wither when Sol's spring is run; Nor fairies dance but in chaste Luna's sheen. Nothing but mourns from that it loves apart: The lone bird sorrows from its sever'd mate; And pines and withers the fond human heart, When those it worshipped leave it desolate. Thus in earth, night, flower, bird, creation's lord, The sweetest, dearest bond, is sympathy; Which sever'd, snaps the close-entwining chord That all things binds in some fond unity. Life-killing Absence, 'neath thy curse I pine, Affection's Upas tree—that name be thine! AGE. Age is the winter season of man's life, The last dim flickering of the taper's ray; 'Tis the last act that closes earthly strife; The latest character that he may play. Yet here, i' the lean and slipper'd pantaloon, With rev'rend hair, white as the drifted snow, We madly mock our fate—play the buffoon, And self-deceiving to the dark grave go. The withered leaf clings latest to the tree, Hope vainly builds itself on dark despair; The shipwreck'd mariner buffets with the sea, And vainly strives for life, though death be there. So age, with palsied hand, to life doth cling Most fondly, as from age life taketh wing. AMBITION. The waxen wing that strove t' empierce the sky, The daring hand that fired the Ephesian dome, The Spirit's strife with God for mastery, Which made the burning depths of hell its home, Were fell Ambition's. In that one word lies All that is greatly good or greatly ill; 'Tis best of friends—'tis worst of enemies— Honey and poison it doth both distil. With vice enleagued, it sinks our spirit's down, Till lust and murder gorge their fierce desire; But virtue weaves for it a deathless crown, Which teaches noble natures to aspire. Honor and fame soar on its wingÉd breath, Hurl'd in its downward flight lie sin and death. AUTHORS. Authors are beings only half of earth— They own a world apart from other men: A glorious realm! giv'n by their fancy birth, Subjects, a sceptre, and a diadem; A fairy land of thought, in which sweet bliss Would run to ecstasy in wild delight, But that stern Nature drags them back to this, With call imperious, which they may not slight: And then they traffic with their thoughts to live, And coin their laboring brains for daily bread: Getting scant dross for the rich ore they give, While often with the gift their life is shed: And thus they die, leaving behind a name, At once their country's glory and her shame. |
|
