Wrung from the o'er-worn poor. The perjurer, Whose tongue was lithe, e'en now, and voluble Against his neighbor's life, and he who laughed And leaped for joy to see a spotless fame Blasted before his own foul calumnies, Are smit with deadly silence. He, who sold His conscience to preserve a worthless life, Even while he hugs himself on his escape, Trembles, as, doubly terrible, at length, Thy steps o'ertake him, and there is no time For parley, nor will bribes unclench thy grasp. Oft, too, dost thou reform thy victim, long Ere his last hour. And when the reveller, Mad in the chase of pleasure, stretches on, And strains each nerve, and clears the path of life Like wind, thou point'st him to the dreadful goal, And shak'st thy hour-glass in his reeling eye, And check'st him in mid course. Thy skeleton hand Shows to the faint of spirit the right path, And he is warned, and fears to step aside. Thou sett'st between the ruffian and his crime. Thy ghastly countenance, and his slack hand Drops the drawn knife. But, oh, most fearfully Dost thou show forth Heaven's justice, when thy shafts Drink up the ebbing spirit-then the hard
Of heart and violent of hand restores
The treasure to the friendless wretch he wronged. Then from the writhing bosom thou dost pluck
The guilty secret; lips, for ages sealed,
Are faithless to their dreadful trust at length, And give it up; the felon's latest breath Absolves the innocent man who bears his crime; The slanderer, horror-smitten, and in tears, Recalls the deadly obloquy he forged
To work his brother's ruin. Thou dost make Thy penitent victim utter to the air
The dark conspiracy that strikes at life,
And aims to whelm the laws; ere yet the hour
Is come, and the dread sign of murder given.
Thus, from the first of time, hast thou been found On virtue's side; the wicked, but for thee,
Had been too strong for the good; the great of earth Had crushed the weak for ever. Schooled in guile For ages, while each passing year had brought Its baneful lesson, they had filled the world With their abominations; while its tribes, Trodden to earth, imbruted, and despoiled, Had knelt to them in worship; sacrifice Had smoked on many an altar, temple-roofs Had echoed with the blasphemous prayer and hymn: But thou, the great reformer of the world,
Tak'st off the sons of violence and fraud
In their green pupilage, their lore half learned- Ere guilt had quite o'errun the simple heart God gave them at their birth, and blotted out
His image. Thou dost mark them flushed with hope, As on the threshold of their vast designs
Doubtful and loose they stand, and strik'st them down.
Alas! I little thought that the stern power, Whose fearful praise I sang, would try me thus Before the strain was ended. It must cease- For he is in his grave who taught my youth The art of verse, and in the bud of life Offered me to the Muses. Oh, cut off Untimely when thy reason in its strength, Ripened by years of toil and studious search, And watch of Nature's silent lessons, taught Thy hand to practise best the lenient art To which thou gavest thy laborious days, And, last, thy life. And, therefore, when the earth Received thee, tears were in unyielding eyes
And on hard cheeks, and they who deemed thy skill Delayed their death-hour, shuddered and turned pale When thou wert gone. This faltering verse, which thou Shalt not, as wont, o'erlook, is all I have To offer at thy grave-this-and the hope To copy thy example, and to leave
A name of which the wretched shall not think As of an enemy's, whom they forgive
As all forgive the dead. Rest, therefore, thou Whose early guidance trained my infant steps- Rest, in the bosom of God, till the brief sleep
Of death is over, and a happier life
Shall dawn to waken thine insensible dust.
Now thou art not-and yet the men whose guilt Has wearied Heaven for vengeance-he who bears False witness-he who takes the orphan's bread, And robs the widow-he who spreads abroad Polluted hands in mockery of prayer,
Are left to cumber earth. Shuddering I look On what is written, yet I blot not out The desultory numbers; let them stand, The record of an idle revery.
"New York Review," October, 1825.
HEN to the common rest that crowns our
Called in the noon of life, the good man goes,
Or full of years, and ripe in wisdom, lays
His silver temples in their last repose;
When, o'er the buds of youth, the death-wind blows And blights the fairest; when our bitter tears Stream, as the eyes of those that love us close,
We think on what they were, with many fears Lest goodness die with them, and leave the coming
And therefore, to our hearts, the days gone by, When lived the honored sage whose death we wept, And the soft virtues beamed from many an eye, And beat in many a heart that long has slept- Like spots of earth where angel-feet have stepped, Are holy; and high-dreaming bards have told
« PředchozíPokračovat » |