THE NINETIETH BIRTH-DAY.
How seems the wide expanse, respected sage,
The broad horizon of life's troubled sky?
The lengthened course from infancy to age,
How gleams its chart on Wisdom's pausing eye?
Thou, who didst see our infant country start
To giant strife from cradle sleep, serene,
How strikes that drama on the heaven-taught heart
That calmly weighs the actor and the scene?
How seem the gaudes that tempt ambition's trust?
The hero's pomp, the banner proud unfurled?
The sculptured trophy o'er the nameless dust?
The insatiate tear, that scorns a conquered world?
Those boasted gifts that kindle passion's power
To fitful fires of momentary ray?
Those dreaded woes, that wake at midnight-hour
The prayer—"Oh father! take this cup away."
How seem they all? Forgive the intrusive strain,
We, fleeting emmets, withering ere our prime,
Would fain one deep, ennobling vision gain,
Through thy majestic telescope of time.
Those, who with thee the race of life begun,
The fair, the strong, the exquisitely blest,
Have faded from thy presence, one by one,
And sunk, o'er wearied, to an earlier rest.
Alone, sublime, and tending toward the sky!
Thus towers Mont Blanc above the hoary train,
Wins the first smile of day's refulgent eye,
And latest throws its radiance o'er the plain.