Point-to what field of fame?
Where shall the conquest be? What hand shall ever twine
The laurel wreath for me?
Say, shall I hope to wake
Sweet echoes from the lyre,
And lay a gift upon the shrine
That burns with holy fire?
Ah, no! slight praise awaits
The poet's breathing strains;
But cold applause or heartless sneer
May recompense his pains.
Poems are under par in our
Utilitarian times;
And mothers frown, suspiciously,
On all who deal in rhymes.
Or shall I strive to win
The warrior's hard earned glory;
And leave a name posterity
Shall read in martial story?
Alas, the faded pomp of war!
In these pacific days,
The soldier rests in idleness
On his uncrimsoned bays;
He seldom dreams of conquest,
Save in his morning calls;
And wins his proudest laurels,
At promenades and balls.
A painter? It is joy
To gaze in beauty's eyes;
To image scenes of fairy land,
Green woods and sunny skies.
But then to work similitudes
Of ugly chins and noses,
And give a rosy hue to cheeks
That never dreamed of roses;
To see in living subjects charms
That no one else can see,
And make a beauty of a fright-
Would never do for me.
A statesman? Shall I talk
Of burning midnight tapers,
Speak speeches, quite extempore,
All ready for the papers;
Fight duels on demand,
Write essays by the lot,
To-day, sit through a long harangue,
To-morrow, stand a shot?
Consent to think and act
As other people bid?—
I hardly think I ever can:
I'm sure I never did.
Then take again the gift,
You proffered me but now;
That broad and glossy leaf was plucked
To deck a prouder brow.
But as I tread the path
Some millions tread beside me,
May love's kind voice still cheer,
May friendship's hand still guide me;
And from the sod that covers me
May earliest spring flowers grow;
Without a stone to bear the name
Of him who sleeps below.
WOULD I might once before my spirit sink
Into the blest, Elysian world of shades,
Visit the happy fields where childhood,
Lapt in its dreams of heaven, joyous reposed.
The humble bush, which hides the linnet-nest
In its cool shade, waves with a sweeter hum,
My friend, than all the groves of laurel
Over the ashes of a conquerer!
The brook, that cuts the meadow, where a boy I gathered violets, runs with a sweeter murmur Through alders which my father planted,
Than the Blandusian silver fountain.
The hill, where many groups of happy boys Swing on the branches of the linden tree, Delights me more than the high mountain, Bathing its summit in the golden sunbeams!
Would I might once, before my spirit sink
Into the blest Elysian world of shades,
Visit the happy fields where childhood,
Lapt in its dreams of heaven, joyous reposed.
Then may the minister of death, in smiles,
His torch extinguish. I will gladly haste
To Xenophon, and Plato's wisdom,
And to Anacreon's bright myrtle wreath.
My way is on the bright blue sea,
My sleep upon its rocking tide;
And many an eye has followed me
Where billows clasp the worn sea-side
My plumage bears the crimson blush,
When ocean by the sun is kissed!
When fades the evening's purple flush,
My dark wing cleaves the silver mist.
Full many a fathom down beneath
The bright arch of the splendid deep,
My ear has heard the sea shell breathe
O'er living myriads in their sleep.
They rested by the coral throne,
And by the pearly diadem,
Where the pale sea-grape had o'ergrown
The glorious dwellings made for them.
At night upon my storm-drenched wing,
I poised above a helmless bark,
And soon I saw the shattered thing
Had passed away and left no mark.
And when the wind and storm had done,
A ship, that had rode out the gale,
Sunk down-without a signal gun,
And none was left to tell the tale.
I saw the pomp of day depart,—
The cloud resign its golden crown,
When to the ocean's beating heart,
The sailor's wasted corse went down.
Peace be to those whose graves are made
Beneath the bright and silver sea!—
Peace that their relics there were laid
With no vain pride and pageantry.
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