I laid me down, but not in sleep—and Memory flew away
To mingle with the sounds and scenes the world had shown by day;
Now listening to the lark, she stray'd across the flowery hill,
Where trickles down from bowering groves the brook that turns the mill;
And now she roam'd the city lanes, where human tongues are loud,
And mix the lofty and the low amid the motley crowd,
Where subtle-eyed philosophy oft heaves a sigh, to scan
The aspiring grasp, and paltry insignificance of man!
'Mid floods of light in festal halls, with jewels rare bedight,
To music's soft and syren sounds, paced damosel with knight;
It seem'd as if the fiend of grief from earthly bounds was driven,
For there were smiles on every cheek that spake of nought but heaven;
But, from that gilded scene, I traced the revellers one by one,
With sad and sunken features each, unto their chambers lone;
And of that gay and smiling crowd whose bosoms leapt to joy,
How many might there be, I ween'd, whom care did not annoy?
Some folded up their wearied eyes to dark unhallow'd dreams—
The soldier to his scenes of blood, the merchant to his schemes:
Pride, jealousy, and slighted love, robb'd woman of her rest;
Revenge, deceit, and selfishness, sway'd man's unquiet breast.
Some, turning to the days of youth, sigh'd o'er the sinless time
Ere passion led the heart astray to folly, care, and crime;
And of that dizzy multitude, from found or fancied woes,
Was scarcely one whose slumbers fell like dew upon the rose!
Then turn'd I to the lowly hearth, where scarcely labour brought
The simplest and the coarsest meal that craving nature sought;
Above, outspread a slender roof, to shield them from the rain,
And their carpet was the verdure with which nature clothes the plain;
Yet there the grateful housewife sat, her infant on her knee,
Its small palms clasp'd within her own, as if likewise pray'd he;
For ere their fingers brake the bread, from toil incessant riven,
Son, sire, and matron bow'd their heads, and pour'd their thanks to Heaven.
What, then, I thought, is human life, if all that thus we see
Of pageantry and of parade devoid of pleasure be!
If only in the conscious heart true happiness abide,
How oft, alas! has wretchedness but grandeur's cloak to hide?
And when upon the outward cheek a transient smile appears,
We little reck how lately hath its bloom been damp'd by tears,
And how the voice, whose thrillings from a light heart seem'd to rise,
Throughout each sleepless watch of night gave utterance but to sighs.
This was the moral, calm and deep, which to my musing thought,
From all the varying views of man and life, reflection brought—
That most things are not what they seem, and that the outward shows
Of grade and rank are only masks that hide our joys and woes;
That with the soul, the soul alone, resides the awful power,
To light with sunshine or o'ergloom the solitary hour;
And that the human heart is but a riddle to be read,
When all the darkness round it now in other worlds hath fled.
Why, then, should sorrow cloud the brow, should misery crush the heart,
Since all life's varied changes "come like shadows, so depart?"
There is one sun, there is one shower, to evil and to just,
And health, and strength, and length of days, and to all the common dust:
But as the snake throws off its skin, the soul throws off its clay,
And soars, till purpled are its wings with everlasting day;
God, having winnow'd with his flail the chaff from out the wheat,
When those, who seem'd alike when here, approach'd his judgment-seat.
* * * * *
THE BANKRUPTCY OF THE GREEK KINGDOM.
Come let us drink their memory,
Those glorious Greeks of old—
On shore and sea the Famed, the Free,
The Beautiful—the Bold!
The mind or mirth that lights each page,
Or bowl by which we sit
Is sunfire pilfer'd from their age—
Gems splinter'd from their wit.
Then, drink and swear by Greece, that there
Though Rhenish Huns may hive
In Britain we the liberty
She loved will keep alive.