My life is like the print which feet
Have left on Tampa's desert strand;
Soon as the rising tide shall beat,
Their track will vanish from the sand;
Yet, as if grieving to efface
All vestige of the human race,
On that lone shore loud moans the sea;
But none shall thus lament for me.
* * * * *
=James A. Hillhouse, 1789-1844.= (Manual, p. 487.)
From "Hadad."
=331.=
Hadad. Confide in me.
I can transport thee, O, to a paradise
To which this Canaan is a darksome span.
Beings shall welcome, serve thee, lovely as angels;
The elemental powers shall stoop, the sea
Disclose her wonders, and receive thy feet
Into her sapphire chambers; orbéd clouds
Shall chariot thee from zone to zone, while earth,
A dwindled, islet, floats beneath thee. Every
Season and clime shall blend for thee the garland.
The Abyss of time shall cast its secrets, ere
The flood marred primal nature, ere this orb
Stood in her station. Thou shalt know the stars,
The houses of eternity, their names,
Their courses, destiny—all marvels high.
Tam. Talk not so madly.
* * * * *
From "The Judgment."
=332.=