As roves from gaudier tints the aching eye VI. There, as a river in its hidden course, Column far away From life-and crumbling in its proud decay-There wildest flowerets bloom—and nightly there Wails with mysterious voice the wandering Air-Amid the stars--the dews--the eternal hills--And the far voices of the dashing rills-- Amid the haunted darkness of the night, * * Beneath a church's chancel there were laid THE END OF MILTON. 363 ON THE VANITY OF SMALL SUCCESSES. Ergo hominum genus incassum frustràque laborat LUCRET. Lib. 5. 1. 1429. Sick, wearied, worn; the harsh Ixion wheel Within the heart shall have a moment's rest; And thoughts---deep thoughts, I would but rarely feel, Shall not be now represt. Out on this curse of earth! we toil--we yearn, We coil and shrivel the smooth heart with care ; We make each hour a'task--And our return ?-- GO---ask our tombs---'tis there! O God, that from this small and wizard ring The pent but all-impatient soul could strain! Lo! round the air-within the exulting wing- Why this eternal chain ? We see-we feel-we pant--and we aspire, Ay; for one hour we dream we have arisen ; Earth fades below---we wake behold the mire, And grating of our prison ! Oh! that our youth had dreamt to what an urn Of dust our quick and high desires would shrink ! We stand upon the beach-and ask return, For barks ordained to sink ! There's not one plank on which we freight an aim Purer than aught by life's coarse natures sought, Which the harsh sea engulphs not :---can we blame Those who adventure nought? But in a calm and chill philosophy Suppress within them each more vague desire; For them no half-felt feelings pant and sigh; No unfledg’d hopes expire ! Mother of Fate---primæval Night--thine old And unvex'd oracles are round me still; The sybil Stars, and She who lost her cold Name on the Carian Hill ! Say thou,--..for in thy weird and demon homes Thou shroud'st the spectres of departed lore, Dread Egypt's mysteries, and the mouldering tomes, From which the Samian bore The treasure of his doctrine !---All that glow'd Out from the heart of man in ages gone Like perish'd stars into thy black abode, Without a dirge have wonne ! Say-boots our labour?---Were it not more wise To drink Life's tide unwitting where it flows, Renounce the high-sould toil, and only prize The Cnidian vine and rose ? True, for some few on whom her lavish smile, Fame--the false Lais of the doting sage-Bestows;-there may be somewhat to beguile Youth's travail into Age! The laurel lulls the aching brow it decks ; And the loud pæäns of the gazing horde, Bring no disdained reward. But here, among the dense and struggling herd, For me no proud success and glory wait; The Envy and the Hate Envy and Hate !--for what ?--for boons so slight, That I could gnaw my heart that mine they are, Did I not know that proud heart's baffled flight Sought meeds how different far ! O Night !---my woo'd and won, and earliest friend, Was it for this my soul I shaped and bowed, And from my dreams' Olympus did descend To the self-yassal'd crowd? |