Poems (Griffith)/The Student
The Student.
ALONE he sat. His broad and lofty brow Was bent upon his thin, pale hand; his locks Of jet hung o'er it with a darkened shade; His black and glistening eye gleamed with some deep And sad and earnest thought; his cheek was white— White as the Parian stone; his quivering lip Was blanched to Death's own hue; and the blue veins That branched along his temples seemed to throb With the strong spirit's fever.
All alone, In the dim twilight's calm rind solemn hour, He sat and mused upon his far-off house, His happy childhood's faded years, and all The beauty and the glory that had passed With them for evermore. He sadly thought Of his sweet sister, with her golden hair Streaming and waving on the morning wind— His bold young brother sporting at his side, With a free shout, as joyous as the sound Of bright, glad waters, leaping to the sheen Of early Spring—his mother's gentle kiss, Her sad, sweet smile, her holy words of love—His gray-haired father's fervent blessing, breathed With quivering lip, at the last parting hour, When his own tears fell like the Summer rain— And her, the dearer still, whose soft, blue eye, Through dark and gloomy years, had been to him The day-star of his being. Ay, he thought Of these, all sleeping in the church-yard now, And 'mid his mournful musings he forgot The world, his many triumphs, and his wild And maddening love of fame, that in the dim And distant future might make melody, Dear melody for his now lonely ear; And then he bowed his strong and lofty heart, And, 'mid his sad and holy memories, wept His stern, dark pride away.
From his deep trance—His long, deep trance of memory, love and grief—He started up, and clenching his pale hands In strong resolve, he raised his eyes to Heaven, And moved his thin and bloodless lips, and vowed To win a name a nation should adore—To write it on the broad and glorious scroll Of living greatness. Then, as o'er his heart The vision stole with bright and burning power, That would not be controlled, he smiled, and quelled The rushing tide of passion's flood, and pressed The one bright picture to his breast—the dear,Prized picture of his future glory.
HighAmong the foremost of his country's sons That student stands. The wild and stormy soulsOf multitudes bow to his master-will, Even as the sheaves the dreaming patriarch saw Bow to the master sheaf. Each lightning flash Of his sublime and glorious intellect Is followed by the long, loud thunder-peal Of popular acclaim. Lone and bereft In heart, he sways a mighty people's hearts,And moves majestic in his pride of place, Lord of the realm's applause. Ah, little know The idolizing world the bitter throes That rend his soul, the weary woe he bears Without a word or sign. His power and fame Are all they know or seek to know. No eye Save God's may see him in his solitude, When, 'mid the holy stillness of the night, He turns from all life's glittering pomp away, And weeps and sobs, ay, like a very child.