LAMENT.
LAMENT.
The years draw nigh when thou shalt say,
I have no pleasure. Eccles.
1.
Years are coming hither
When this heart so gay,
Much I fear will wither!
Youth is gone away.
Men are brothers—brothers!
Oh! I tremble then,
Lest I grow as others
Of my fellow-men.
2.
Those of whims and wrinkles,
Once were blithe as I;
Heads that frost besprinkles,
Once look’d bonnily;
And where winter lingers
Upon the old man’s curls,
Have play’d the taper fingers
Of well-beloved girls.
3.
Oh, must the years come on me
When these are no delight!
Must frost-work fall upon me,
And deadliness and blight;
This heart that loves the summer,
Be chilly as the cold;
And I be dim, and dumber
Than the mummies of the Old!
4.
And am I surely growing
In soul and senses seal’d,
Like him who, all unknowing,
Is frozen and congeal’d!
I know it—ah, I know it;
Of all the world ’tis true;
And the fibres of the poet
Must break—or toughen too.
5.
Thank God with all my spirit
For my only, only cheer,
Since I learn’d that I inherit
A destiny so drear.
But now I care not for it,
And welcome is the grave;
Oh why should I abhor it,
Since only it can save!
6.
I’ve seen a worm that weaveth
His shroud as with delight;
Then sleeps, as who believeth,
He only bids good night.
Then up again he springeth,
A wing’d and elfin form;
Away, away he wingeth,
An angel from a worm!
7.
Wise worm! and I, his brother,
Will learn from him to live!
A lesson that no other
So beautiful can give.
Oh, weave in life thy swathing,
And then in Christ repose!
Who maketh life a plaything
Is born to many woes.