To My Friends
'Tis true, dear friends—and no one will deny—
That fairer times than ours have long gone by!
A nobler people here has had its birth,
As—did a jealous history not teach—
A thousand stones would testify in speech,
Hewed from the very bosom of the earth.
But those majestic times have passed away,
And we remain—the present day is ours.
That favoured race has mouldered in decay,
And we who live must exercise our powers.
Happier spheres there are in which to dwell,
My friends, as travellers for ever tell,
Than this our own perplexed and weary land.
But if by Nature we are shorn of much,
At least our hearts are quickened by the touch
Of Art bestowed with no reluctant hand.
'Tis true, from us the laurel may recoil,
The myrtle shrink before our Winter's grip,
But merry vines spring freely from the soil
To deck our brows with goodly fellowship.
In the great life without the tumults swell
Where continents their treasures buy and sell
Along the Thames, the market of the world.
All that is costly there you may behold,
And ships arriving with their canvas furled,
And ruling everywhere—the God of Gold.
Not upon turbid and torrential streams
The mirroréd image of the sunshine plays;
But on the silent brook with gentle beams
In friendly warmth twinkle the glancing rays.
More dignified than in our Northern lands
The beggar at the “Angel Portal” stands,
For what he looks on is—Eternal Rome!
Essence of beauty floats upon the air,
And Peter's great incomparable dome
To heaven within a heaven may compare.
Yet Rome with all her glory and her pride
Is but the sepulchre of days gone by:
Only in healthy plants can life abide,
Such as can sip the moments as they fly.
Greater events and things there may have been
Than in this narrow life of ours are seen:
New!—Why, beneath the sun is nothing new!
All that is worthiest of every age
Is duly mustered on this worldly stage,
And passed deliberately in review.
The life of yesterday recurs to-day,
And Phantasy alone is ever young:
That only never suffers from decay
Which into actual being never sprung.
That fairer times than ours have long gone by!
A nobler people here has had its birth,
As—did a jealous history not teach—
A thousand stones would testify in speech,
Hewed from the very bosom of the earth.
But those majestic times have passed away,
And we remain—the present day is ours.
That favoured race has mouldered in decay,
And we who live must exercise our powers.
Happier spheres there are in which to dwell,
My friends, as travellers for ever tell,
Than this our own perplexed and weary land.
But if by Nature we are shorn of much,
At least our hearts are quickened by the touch
Of Art bestowed with no reluctant hand.
'Tis true, from us the laurel may recoil,
The myrtle shrink before our Winter's grip,
But merry vines spring freely from the soil
To deck our brows with goodly fellowship.
In the great life without the tumults swell
Where continents their treasures buy and sell
Along the Thames, the market of the world.
All that is costly there you may behold,
And ships arriving with their canvas furled,
And ruling everywhere—the God of Gold.
Not upon turbid and torrential streams
The mirroréd image of the sunshine plays;
But on the silent brook with gentle beams
In friendly warmth twinkle the glancing rays.
More dignified than in our Northern lands
The beggar at the “Angel Portal” stands,
For what he looks on is—Eternal Rome!
Essence of beauty floats upon the air,
And Peter's great incomparable dome
To heaven within a heaven may compare.
Yet Rome with all her glory and her pride
Is but the sepulchre of days gone by:
Only in healthy plants can life abide,
Such as can sip the moments as they fly.
Greater events and things there may have been
Than in this narrow life of ours are seen:
New!—Why, beneath the sun is nothing new!
All that is worthiest of every age
Is duly mustered on this worldly stage,
And passed deliberately in review.
The life of yesterday recurs to-day,
And Phantasy alone is ever young:
That only never suffers from decay
Which into actual being never sprung.
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