PASSING AWAY.
“‘Passing away’ is written on the world, and all the world contains.”
It is written on the rose,
In its glory’s full array;
Read what those buds disclose—
“Passing away.”
It is written on the skies
Of the soft blue summer day;
It is traced in sunset’s dyes—
“Passing away.”
It is written on the trees,
As their young leaves glistening play,
And on brighter things than these—
“Passing away.”
It is written on the brow
Where the spirit’s ardent ray
Lives, burns, and triumphs now—
“Passing away.”
It is written on the heart;
Alas! that there Decay
Should claim from Love a part—
“Passing away.”
Friends, friends!—oh! shall we meet
In a land of purer day,
Where lovely things and sweet
Pass not away?
Shall we know each other’s eyes,
And the thoughts that in them lay
When we mingled sympathies
“Passing away?”
Oh! if this may be so,
Speed, speed, thou closing day!
How blest from earth’s vain show
To pass away!
THE ANGLER.[388]
“I in these flowery meads would be;
These crystal streams should solace me;
To whose harmonious bubbling noise
I with my angle would rejoice;
...
And angle on, and beg to have
A quiet passage to a welcome grave.”
Isaac Walton.
Thou that hast loved so long and well
The vale’s deep, quiet streams,
Where the pure water-lilies dwell,
Shedding forth tender gleams;
And o’er the pool the May-fly’s wing
Glances in golden eves of spring!
Oh, lone and lovely haunts are thine!
Soft, soft the river flows,
Wearing the shadow of thy line,
The gloom of alder-boughs;
And in the midst a richer hue,
One gliding vein of heaven’s own blue.
And there but low sweet sounds are heard—
The whisper of the reed,
The plashing trout, the rustling bird,
The scythe upon the mead;
Yet, through the murmuring osiers near,
There steals a step which mortals fear.
’Tis not the stag, that comes to lave
At noon his panting breast;
’Tis not the bittern, by the wave
Seeking her sedgy nest;
The air is fill’d with summer’s breath,
The young flowers laugh—yet look! ’tis Death!
But if, where silvery currents rove,
Thy heart, grown still and sage,
Hath learn’d to read the words of love
That shine o’er nature’s page;
If holy thoughts thy guests have been
Under the shade of willows green;
Then, lover of the silent hour
By deep lone waters pass’d!
Thence hast thou drawn a faith, a power,
To cheer thee through the last;
And, wont on brighter worlds to dwell,
May’st calmly bid thy streams farewell.
[388] This, and the following poem, were originally written for a work entitled Death’s Doings, edited by Mr Alaric Watts.