LINES,
Written in London.
Struggle not with thy life!—the heavy doom
Resist not, it will bow thee like a slave:
Strive not! thou shalt not conquer; to thy tomb
Thou shalt go crushed, and ground, though ne’er so brave.
Complain not of thy life!—for what art thou
More than thy fellows, that thou should’st not weep?
Brave thoughts still lodge beneath a furrowed brow,
And the way-wearied have the sweetest sleep.
Marvel not at thy life!—patience shall see
The perfect work of wisdom to her given;
Hold fast thy soul through this high mystery,
And it shall lead thee to the gates of heaven.
TO ---
What recks the sun, how weep the heavy flowers
All the sad night, when he is far away?
What recks he, how they mourn, through those dark hours,
Till back again he leads the smiling day?
As lifts each watery bloom its tearful eye,
And blesses from its lowly seat, the god,
In his great glory he goes through the sky,
And recks not of the blessing from the sod.
And what is it to thee, oh, thou, my fate!
That all my hope, and joy, remains with thee?
That thy departing, leaves me desolate,
That thy returning, brings back life to me?
I blame not thee, for all the strife, and woe,
That for thy sake daily disturbs my life;
I blame not thee, that Heaven has made me so,
That all the love I can, is woe, and strife.
I blame not thee, that I may ne’er impart
The tempest, and the death, and the despair,
That words, and looks, of thine make in my heart,
And turn by turn, riot and stagnate there.