Page:The Poets and Poetry of the West.djvu/141

1830-40.] GEORGE D. PRENTICE. 125 And chanted to the ever-listening heart In the wild music of a thousand tongues, Or soared into the open sky, until Night's burning gems seemed jeweled on her brow, Has shut her drooping wing, and made her home Within the voiceless sepulcher. And Love, That knelt at Passion's holiest shrine, and gazed On his heart's idol as on some sweet star, Whose purity and distance make it dear. And dreamed of ecstacies, until his soul Seemed but a lyre, that wakened in the glance Of the beloved one — he too has gone To his eternal resting-place. And where Is stern Ambition — he who madly grasped At Glory's fleeting phantom — he who sought His fame upon the battle-field, and longed To make his throne a pyramid of bones Amid the sea of blood ? He too has gone ! His stormy voice is mute — his mighty arm Is nerveless on its clod — his very name Is but a meteor of the night of years Whose gleams flashed out a moment o'er the Earth, And faded into nothingness. The dream Of high devotion — ^beauty's bright array — And life's deep idol memories — all have passed Like the cloud-shadows on a starlight stream. Or a soft strain of music, when the winds Are slumbering on the billow. Yet, why muse Upon the past with sorrow ? Though the year Has gone to blend with the mysterious tide Of old Eternity, and borne along Upon its heaving breast a thousand wrecks Of glory and of beauty — yet, why mourn That such is destiny ? Another year Succeedeth to the past — in their bright round The seasons come and go — the same blue arch, That hath hung o'er us, will hang o'er us yet — The same pure stars that we have lov'd to watch, Will blossom still at twilight's gentle hour Like lilies on the tomb of Day — and still Man will remain, to dream as he hath dreamed. And mark the earth with passion. Love will spring From the lone tomb of old Affections — Hope And Joy and great Ambition, will rise up As they have risen — and their deeds will be Brighter than those engraven on the scroll Of parted centuries. Even now the sea Of coming years, beneath whose mighty waves Life's great events are heaving into birth. Is tossing to and fro, as if the winds Of heaven were prisoned in its soundless depths And struggling to be free. Weep not, that Time Is passing on — it will ere long reveal A brighter era to the nations. Hark ! Along the vales and mountains of the earth There is a deep, portentous murmuring, Like the swift rush of subterranean streams, Or like the mingled sounds of earth and air, When the fierce Tempest, with sonorous wing. Heaves his deep folds upon the rushing winds, And hurries onward with his night of clouds Against the eternal mountains. 'Tis the voice Of infant Freedom — and her stirring call Is heard and answered in a thousand tones From every hill-top of her western home — And lo — it breaks across old Ocean's flood —