1 1830-40.] LEWIS F. THOMAS. 215 We labor with unceasing toil , But woe and care obscure her ray. To win its fleeting smile, And vail her beams in night ; — And through its myriad windings coil, For either good or guile. And love — our young heart's plighted gage— And hope though oft deferr'd still beams, Our youth's most thrilling theme — To lure us with its ray, Alas ! we find in wint'ry age. And still we welcome joy's new dreams, 'Twas only summer's dream. As old ones pass away. We are — and yet we know not why Ambition gems a diadem, Our fate has sent us hither. And wreathes a wreath of fame, To live our little hour and die, And bids us fortune's current stem, And go — we know not whither. To battle for a name. man is but a fragile bark. We seize the sword, to war rush on, Toss'd on a tempest sea; We fall — our wounds our glory — Above him storm-clouds gather dark, And thus in honor's guerdon won, And breakers on his lee. And thus we end our story. Hope's a false beacon on the wave, Or else perchance to learning's page That lures him to despair; The thought of fame awakes us, Truth's only home is in the grave — We study on from youth to age. The wise will seek her there. Or till disease o'ertakes us. Meanwhile the rabble bears along Some demagogue before us, Who courted well the vulgar throng, And thus doth triumph o'er us. f MEMORY. Philosophy we ponder o'er A HARP whose every chord's unstrung. In eager search for truth, A doubted treason proved ; And waste upon its pond'rous lore A melody that once was sung, The precious years of youth. By lips that once we loved ; A bark without a helm or sail. And when with age and grief grown gray. Lost on a stormy sea; What problem is found out ? A dove that doth its mate bewail — Alas ! we sadly turn away. Like these is memory. To droop and die in doubt And oh, it is the spirit's well, O'er holy writ we bend the mind Its only fount of truth. Till reason quits her throne, Whose every drop some tale can tell, And then we can but weep to find Of bright and buoyant youth ; The soul a skeptic grown. And as we traverse weary years, Of sorrow and of crime. Friendship in fortune's sunny day. We feed that fount with bitter tears. Is beautiful and bright. Wept for the olden time.
