And Other Poems.
95
This vain deceitful slumber often cheats,
By making us appear what we have been,
The future’s left, the past at daylight fleets;
The wide, dark gulf of Time rolls on between.
Ah Time, what shall I call thee? how address
The conqueror of kings, the sinner’s dread—
Death’s courier—swift, sure, and merciless;
Man’s mocking guide into his narrow bed.
By making us appear what we have been,
The future’s left, the past at daylight fleets;
The wide, dark gulf of Time rolls on between.
Ah Time, what shall I call thee? how address
The conqueror of kings, the sinner’s dread—
Death’s courier—swift, sure, and merciless;
Man’s mocking guide into his narrow bed.
Nations and Empires have come and gone!
Imperial Rome has fallen to the dust.
Regardless of events, thou movest on;
Thy blade is still unstained by mould or rust.
Age after age humanity has paid
Mortality’s inevitable tithe:
And still the ghastly tyrant wields his spade:
Still millions fall before thy ceaseless scythe.
Imperial Rome has fallen to the dust.
Regardless of events, thou movest on;
Thy blade is still unstained by mould or rust.
Age after age humanity has paid
Mortality’s inevitable tithe:
And still the ghastly tyrant wields his spade:
Still millions fall before thy ceaseless scythe.
Oh, who unmoved can look upon thy page,
And trace thee from Creation to the Flood—
From thence unto the present? At each stage,
Thy sandals have been wet with tears and blood.
Forward to chaos! thou canst not turn back;
Procrastination lingers in thy train,
Fire, plague, and famine desolate thy track,
And countless souls cry after thee in vain.
Yet all’s not dark upon thy changeful face:
When thou wert in thy prime, a Saviour came
To wash out, with His life drops, man’s disgrace:
Thy brightest scroll records His sacred name.
And trace thee from Creation to the Flood—
From thence unto the present? At each stage,
Thy sandals have been wet with tears and blood.
Forward to chaos! thou canst not turn back;
Procrastination lingers in thy train,
Fire, plague, and famine desolate thy track,
And countless souls cry after thee in vain.
Yet all’s not dark upon thy changeful face:
When thou wert in thy prime, a Saviour came
To wash out, with His life drops, man’s disgrace:
Thy brightest scroll records His sacred name.
And when Europa’s shores refused to yield
Employment to the hardy sons of toil,
And poverty appealed, thy hand unveiled
New climes where plenty rested on thy soil.
The Golden South, washed by Pacific’s spray,
Calls thousands from the Old World’s crowded marts
To fertile plains, where fame and fortune stay
Awaiting willing hands and gallant hearts.
Employment to the hardy sons of toil,
And poverty appealed, thy hand unveiled
New climes where plenty rested on thy soil.
The Golden South, washed by Pacific’s spray,
Calls thousands from the Old World’s crowded marts
To fertile plains, where fame and fortune stay
Awaiting willing hands and gallant hearts.
Yet fond remembrance clasps the Exile’s heart,
It haunts him still upon this distant strand;
It haunts him still upon this distant strand;
