Classic Poem

Go trace, O man! thine emanation far
Beyond the bounds of earth. The eldest star
May be thy junior. Ask, nor dare to scan
What was ere uncreated Mind began,—
Yet unbegun,—when heaven itself was dark,
When all was void, and life's ethereal spark
Remained unstruck; nor gaze beyond the verge,
Where thought expires, and silence breathes a dirge!

And yet, in search of truth, why not explore
Divinest realms,—the depths of Nature's lore,
Her prone affinities, her plastic forms,
Her mystic aim, and vital spark that warms
Insensate clay to life, and e'en that part
Which cannot die, the moral sense, the heart?

Whate'er our future fate, remote or near,
Why cherish still a faith that's born of fear?
Or why that crisis view with solemn awe,
The expiring hour ordained by Nature's law,—
Man's last yet glorious birth to life that's higher,
Where love abounds, and pure his soul's desire?

And is it not enough for us to know
That Nature wills our weal, but ne'er our woe?
Then why refuse, amid unclouded light,
To read her lessons, and to choose the right?
Or why still ask, beyond this vale of tears,
If man be blest, or sink the waif of years?
Since life, whate'er its form, whate'er its sphere,
Survives all change, nor stays its bright career.

This planet, Earth, whereon we strive and die,
Compared with mightier orbs that gem the sky,
What is it but a sunbeam's glittering mote?
And what, among the spheres, its lowly note?
And what are systems, with their central sun,
But dazzling lights with which the viewless One
Illumes his boundless realms, and palace-halls,
And hallowed courts that glow with sapphire walls,—
The final home where weary souls shall rest,
And taste but bliss, and be forever blest?

And what is man, with ever-wavering trust?
What but a breathing miracle of dust;
A puzzle to himself, o'er which he sighs,
And questions God, yet thinks himself as wise?
Aspiring still, at most what can he know
Of life not yet revealed 'mid stars that glow?
Though his an Eden once, it soon became
A scene of tears, and sin acquired a name;
But not till crowned with flowers, and at his side
Angelic woman smiled, and blushed a bride!
Enough, since man was blest, when fatal lore
Touched woman's heart with sorrow to the core,
And placed her in her present sphere, alone,
To cheer the fallen state with love's sweet tone.

Though heirs to grief, we struggle to regain
The treasures of the sky; but, ah! the strain
Which Hope the siren still pours forth misleads
The frantic chase, nor soothes the heart that bleeds;
And yet like shadows, aimless, still we flit,
Perplexed with doubts, nor learn that ills befit
On earth our dark career. 'Tis sweet to think
That we may yet be blest, while link by link
In Nature's chain we climb, and dimly trace
Our destiny, and seize, as if by grace,
E'en on celestial joys; though oft we quake
'Mid ghostly fears, and Wisdom's path forsake.

When Nature counselleth the heart, we hear
Reproving whispers; conscience, or a tear,
Perhaps, betrays us to ourselves; and then
The world, its pride, its pomp, its fools, its men,
Pass huddled in review,—a painful scene,
That sickens life. 'Tis all in vain, I ween,
To ponder o'er the fate of human kind:
All would be happy, yet all will be blind.

Ah! why do men still seek it as a prize,—
The happiness which dazzles envious eyes,—
And yet forget the source of moral good,
The charities of life, least understood?
Why penetrate the mountain's rocky side
For crumbs of gold, or track the ocean wide
To gather pearls, and, at some future day,
Expect to bask beneath the sunny ray
Of earthly bliss, yet die at last the slaves
Of Folly's reign, and fill forgotten graves?

Forbear the human bosom to unmask:
The passions prompt us, whatsoe'er we ask;
And Virtue's path, though traced upon a chart,
We seldom choose till grief refines the heart.
Yet hope links heaven and earth; and thus, despite
The human will, unerring Nature's light
Constrains belief, and teaches that the soul
Must be immortal. Nor can aught control
This innate sense. Alas! who would persuade
Himself, by dint of lore or logic's aid,
That dark annihilation, cheerless creed,
Ingulfs us all at last, then blots the deed?

Though man may seem, with his restricted powers,
The victim still of Fortune's freakish hours,
Yet rule he may—and overrule—by thought
Which still expands, till he himself is wrought
To more than man. And when, at last, the breath
Which he inhales at birth departs at death,
He but attains to life,—a soul refined,
That's merged again in elemental Mind.

Oft from the darkened past, as from an urn,
The memories dear of those we loved return,
And tell of days and years and feeling hearts,
When friendship knew but truth, and love no arts;
When joys were pure, and in life's golden sky
No darkling cloud arose to blind the eye;
When Hope with smiling brow inspired the hours,
And earth seemed but a paradise of flowers.

Amid the gloom of years old empires rest;
And who can say if they were cursed or blest?
The monuments which told with lettered trust
Where slept the great have crumbled into dust.
Perchance the clods on which we heedless tread
Have breathed with life,—the ashes of the dead,—
Ashes which yet shall wake to conscious life,
And, in the great advancing drama's strife,
Assume, with new-born joy and purer heart,
Still higher forms, and play a nobler part.
And yet why doubt, or yield to mystic fear?
What Nature wills, God wills,—a truth that's clear.