Life's Pilgrimage
Infant! I envy thee
Thy seraph smile—thy soul, without a strain,
Angels around thee hover in thy glee
A look of love to gain!
Thy paradise is made
Upon thy mother's bosom, and her voice
Is music rich as that by spirits shed
When blessed things rejoice!
Bright are the opening flowers—
Ay, bright as thee, sweet babe, and innocent,
They bud and bloom; and straight their infant hours,
Like thine, are done and spent!
BOY! infancy is o'er:—
Go with thy playmates to the grassy lea,
Let thy bright eye with yon far laverock soar,
And blithe and happy be!
Go, crow thy cuckoo notes
Till all the greenwood alleys loud are ringing—
Go, listen to the thousand tuneful throats
That 'mong the leaves are singing!
I would not sadden thee,
Nor wash the rose upon thy cheek with tears:
Go, while thine eye is bright—unbent thy knee—
Forget all cares and fears!
YOUTH! is thy boyhood gone?—
The fever hour of life at length has come,
And passion sits in reason's golden throne,
While sorrow's voice is dumb!
Be glad! it is thy hour
Of love ungrudging—faith without reserve—
And, from the right, ill hath not yet the power
To make thy footsteps swerve!
Now is thy time to know
How much of trusting goodness lives on earth;
And rich in pure sincerity to go
Rejoicing in thy birth!
Youth's sunshine unto thee—
Love, first and dearest, has unveil'd her face,
And thou hast set beneath thy trysting tree
In love's first fond embrace!
Enjoy thy happy dream,
For life hath not another such to give;
The stream is flowing—love's enchanting stream;
Live, happy dreamer, live!
Though sorrow dwelleth here,
And falsehood, and impurity, and sin,
The light of love, the gloom of earth to cheer,
Comes sweetly, sweetly in!
'Tis o'er—thou art a man—
The struggle and the tempest both begin
Where he who faints must fail—he fight who can,
A victory to win!
Say, toilest thou for gold?
Will all that earth can give of drossy hues
Compensate for that land of love foretold.
Which mammon makes thee lose?
Or waitest thou for power?
A proud ambition, trifler, doth thee raise!
To be the gilded bauble of the hour
That fools may wond'ring gaze!
But would'st thou be a man—
A lofty, noble, uncorrupted thing,
Beneath whose eye the false might tremble wan,
The good with gladness sing?
Go, cleanse thy heart, and fill
Thy soul with love and goodness; let it be
Like yonder lake, so holy, calm, and still,
And full of purity!
This is thy task on earth—
This is thy eager manhood's proudest goal;
To cast all meanness and world-worship forth—
And thus exalt the soul!
'Tis manhood makes the man
A high-soul'd freeman or a fetter'd slave,
The mind a temple fit for God to span,
Or a dark dungeon-grave!
God doth not man despise,
He gives him soul—mind—heart—that living flame;
Nurse it, and upward let it brightly rise
To heaven, from whence it came!
Go hence, go hence, and make
Thy spirit pure as morning, light and free!
The pilgrim shrine is won, and I awake—
Come to the woods with me!
Thy seraph smile—thy soul, without a strain,
Angels around thee hover in thy glee
A look of love to gain!
Thy paradise is made
Upon thy mother's bosom, and her voice
Is music rich as that by spirits shed
When blessed things rejoice!
Bright are the opening flowers—
Ay, bright as thee, sweet babe, and innocent,
They bud and bloom; and straight their infant hours,
Like thine, are done and spent!
BOY! infancy is o'er:—
Go with thy playmates to the grassy lea,
Let thy bright eye with yon far laverock soar,
And blithe and happy be!
Go, crow thy cuckoo notes
Till all the greenwood alleys loud are ringing—
Go, listen to the thousand tuneful throats
That 'mong the leaves are singing!
I would not sadden thee,
Nor wash the rose upon thy cheek with tears:
Go, while thine eye is bright—unbent thy knee—
Forget all cares and fears!
YOUTH! is thy boyhood gone?—
The fever hour of life at length has come,
And passion sits in reason's golden throne,
While sorrow's voice is dumb!
Be glad! it is thy hour
Of love ungrudging—faith without reserve—
And, from the right, ill hath not yet the power
To make thy footsteps swerve!
Now is thy time to know
How much of trusting goodness lives on earth;
And rich in pure sincerity to go
Rejoicing in thy birth!
Youth's sunshine unto thee—
Love, first and dearest, has unveil'd her face,
And thou hast set beneath thy trysting tree
In love's first fond embrace!
Enjoy thy happy dream,
For life hath not another such to give;
The stream is flowing—love's enchanting stream;
Live, happy dreamer, live!
Though sorrow dwelleth here,
And falsehood, and impurity, and sin,
The light of love, the gloom of earth to cheer,
Comes sweetly, sweetly in!
'Tis o'er—thou art a man—
The struggle and the tempest both begin
Where he who faints must fail—he fight who can,
A victory to win!
Say, toilest thou for gold?
Will all that earth can give of drossy hues
Compensate for that land of love foretold.
Which mammon makes thee lose?
Or waitest thou for power?
A proud ambition, trifler, doth thee raise!
To be the gilded bauble of the hour
That fools may wond'ring gaze!
But would'st thou be a man—
A lofty, noble, uncorrupted thing,
Beneath whose eye the false might tremble wan,
The good with gladness sing?
Go, cleanse thy heart, and fill
Thy soul with love and goodness; let it be
Like yonder lake, so holy, calm, and still,
And full of purity!
This is thy task on earth—
This is thy eager manhood's proudest goal;
To cast all meanness and world-worship forth—
And thus exalt the soul!
'Tis manhood makes the man
A high-soul'd freeman or a fetter'd slave,
The mind a temple fit for God to span,
Or a dark dungeon-grave!
God doth not man despise,
He gives him soul—mind—heart—that living flame;
Nurse it, and upward let it brightly rise
To heaven, from whence it came!
Go hence, go hence, and make
Thy spirit pure as morning, light and free!
The pilgrim shrine is won, and I awake—
Come to the woods with me!
Translation:
Language:
Reviews
No reviews yet.