Pocahontas and Other Poems (New York)/Mutations
MUTATIONS.
As waves the grass upon the fields to-day,
Which soon the wasting scythe shall sweep away,
As smiles the flow'ret in the morning dew,
Which eve's chill blast in blighted death may strew,
Thus in brief glory spring the sons of clay,
Thus bloom a while, then wither and decay.
I saw an infant in its robe of white,
The admiring mother's ever dear delight;
It clapp'd its hands when tones of mirth went by,
And nature's gladness glisten'd in its eye;
Again I came—an empty crib was there,
A little coffin, and a funeral prayer.
I saw a boy in healthful vigour bold,
Nor summer's heat he fear'd, nor winter's cold,
With dexterous foot he dared the frozen pool,
His laugh rang loudest mid his mates at school;
Again I came—his name alone was found
On one low stone that marks yon churchyard mound.
I saw a gentle maid with beauty bless'd,
In youth resplendent, and by love caress'd,
Her clustering hair in sunny ringlets glow'd,
Her red lips moved, and thrilling music flow'd;
Again I came—her parents' halls were lone,
And o'er her turf-bed rose the weeper's moan.
Oh boasted joys of earth! how swift ye fly,
Rent from the heart or hidden from the eye;
So through the web the weaver's shuttle glides,
So speeds the vessel o'er the billowy tides,
So cleaves the bird the liquid fields of light,
And leaves no furrow of its trackless flight.
Dust tends to dust, with ashes, ashes blend,
Yet when the grave ingulfs the buried friend,
A few brief sighs may mark its yawning brink,
A few salt tears the broken clods may drink,
A few sad hearts with bursting anguish bleed,
And pay that tribute which they soon must need.
They soon must need! But life's returning cares
Sweep off the precious fruit that sorrow bears;
The mourner drops his sable, and aspires
To light anew ambition's smother'd fires,
Bathes his worn brow with labour's wasting dew,
And sleepless toils for heirs he knows not who.
Then He who marks us in our vain career,
Oft smites in mercy what we hold most dear,
Shreds from our vine the bowering leaves away,
And breaks its tendrils from their grovelling stay,
That the rich clusters, lifted to the sky,
May ripen better for a world on high.