Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/Lines on a Skeleton

Lines on a Skeleton.

Behold this ruin! 'Twas a skull,Once of the ethereal spirit full;This narrow cell was life's retreat,This space was thought's mysterious seat.What beauteous visions filled this spot!What dreams of pleasure long forgot!Nor hope, nor joy, nor love, nor fearHave left one trace of record here.Beneath this mouldering canopyOnce dwelt the bright and busy eye;But start not at the dismal void.If social love that eye employed;If with no lawless fire it gleamed,But through the dews of kindness beamed,That eye shall be for ever bright,When stars and sun are sunk in night.Within the hollow cavern hungThe ready, swift, and tuneful tongue.If falsehood's honey it disdained,And, when it could not praise, was chained,If bold in virtue's cause it spokeYet gentle concord never broke,That silent tongue shall plead for thee,When time unveils eternity.Say, did those fingers delve the mine,Or with the envied rubies shine?To hew the rock or wear the gemCan little now avail to them.But if the forge of truth they sought,Or comfort to the mourner brought,These hands a richer meed shall claim,Than all that waits on wealth or fame.Avails it, whether bare or shod,These feet the path of duty trod;If from the bowers of ease they fledTo seek affliction's humble shed;If grandeur's guilty bribe they spurned,And home to virtue's cot returned,These feet with angel's wings shall vie,And tread the palace of the sky.