SELF-INTEROGATION
"The evening passes fast away.
'Tis almost time to rest;
What thoughts has left the
vanished day,
What feelings in thy breast?
"The vanished day?
It leaves a sense
Of labour hardly done;
Of little gained with vast
expense--
A sense of grief alone?
"Time stands before the door
of Death,
Upbraiding bitterly
And Conscience, with exhaustless
breath,
Pours black reproach on
me:
"And though I've said that
Conscience lies
And Time should Fate condemn;
Still, sad Repentance clouds
my eyes,
And makes me yield to them!
"Then art thou glad to seek
repose?
Art glad to leave the sea,
And anchor all thy weary
woes
In calm Eternity?
"Nothing regrets to see thee
go--
Not one voice sobs' farewell;'
And where thy heart has
suffered so,
Canst thou desire to dwell?"
"Alas! the countless links
are strong
That bind us to our clay;
The loving spirit lingers
long,
And would not pass away!
"And rest is sweet, when
laurelled fame
Will crown the soldier's
crest;
But a brave heart, with
a tarnished name,
Would rather fight than
rest.
"Well, thou hast fought for
many a year,
Hast fought thy whole life
through,
Hast humbled Falsehood,
trampled Fear;
What is there left to do?
"'Tis true, this arm has
hotly striven,
Has dared what few would
dare;
Much have I done, and freely
given,
But little learnt to bear!
"Look on the grave where
thou must sleep
Thy last, and strongest
foe;
It is endurance not to weep,
If that repose seem woe.
"The long war closing in
defeat--
Defeat serenely borne,--
Thy midnight rest may still
be sweet,
And break in glorious morn!" |
