I see thee eager at thy play, Along the garden walks, The tracks of thy small carriage-wheels I trace; And see at every turn how they efface Whole villages of sand-roofed tents, That rise like golden domes Above the cavernous and secret homes Of wandering and nomadic tribes of ants. Ah, cruel little Tamerlane, Who, with thy dreadful reign, Dost persecute and overwhelm These hapless Troglodytes of thy realm! What! tired already! with those suppliant looks, And voice more beautiful than a poet's books, Or murmuring sound of water as it flows, A sailless vessel drops adown the stream, O child! O new-born denizen Of life's great city! on thy head Here at the portal thou dost stand, Thou openest the mysterious gate As at the touch of Fate! Into those realms of love and hate, Into that darkness blank and drear, As upon subterranean streams, In caverns unexplored and dark, Men sometimes launch a fragile bark, Laden with flickering fire, And watch its swift-receding beams, Until at length they disappear, And in the distant dark expire. By what astrology of fear or hope Like the new moon thy life appears ; And widening outward into night A luminous circle, faint and dim, Rounds and completes the perfect sphere; A prophecy and intimation, A pale and feeble adumbration, Of the great world of light, that lies Ah! if thy fate, with anguish fraught, Until the overburdened brain, When most afflicted and oppressed, From labor there shall come forth rest. And if a more auspicious fate On thy advancing steps await, To linger by the laborer's side; To cheer the dreary march along O'er desert sand, o'er dangerous moor. Nor to thyself the task shall be Without reward; for thou shalt learn The wisdom early to discern True beauty in utility; |