Poems (Hornblower)/Life
For works with similar titles, see Life.
LIFE.
The mystery of life—oh how it weighs
Upon the spirit's wings, when first youth dawns,
And aspirations beautiful and high
Fill the young heart with joy. The world's cold faith,
Like a dark cloud, comes interposed between
The heaven within, and God; and day by day,
Fades in the breast some fresh and glorious hope,
Nipt by its sceptic blight; that unbelief
Which senses crusted round with earthly things
Draw with then-very breath—the poisonous faith
Of the world's customs and inglorious views,
Which, day by day, as deeper it imbibes
Wanders the soul from its diviner walk—
The stars are in eclipse—the heavens are dimmed,
Even God himself, on the eternal throne,
No more is conscious to the heart obscure;
Things palpable are all—and Mammon there
Sits as a sceptred king—and mortal glories,
With then vain, shadowy coruscations, shed
A visionary splendour. Darkened heart,
Where the sublime and true can enter not!
Where is the temple, there for the Supreme,
The altar fit for God? He comes not there
Where earthly passions rage, where persecution
Lights her unholy fires, where avarice broods
Over his sordid dreams, where love deserves not
The glory of its name; poor selfish passion,
Which desolates the heart—He comes not there.
Yet this is life—this is the education
Which the world gives its votaries. Early death,
Which comes with shadowing peace upon his wings,
And folds the young, unstained heart to heaven,
Its visions bright, its dearest hopes unbroken,
Its aspirations yet upon their flight,
Unsoiled by the world's dust, why do we mourn thee?
Valuing the sweet breath of the dewy morn,
Less than the heat, and toil, and battling day.
Upon the spirit's wings, when first youth dawns,
And aspirations beautiful and high
Fill the young heart with joy. The world's cold faith,
Like a dark cloud, comes interposed between
The heaven within, and God; and day by day,
Fades in the breast some fresh and glorious hope,
Nipt by its sceptic blight; that unbelief
Which senses crusted round with earthly things
Draw with then-very breath—the poisonous faith
Of the world's customs and inglorious views,
Which, day by day, as deeper it imbibes
Wanders the soul from its diviner walk—
The stars are in eclipse—the heavens are dimmed,
Even God himself, on the eternal throne,
No more is conscious to the heart obscure;
Things palpable are all—and Mammon there
Sits as a sceptred king—and mortal glories,
With then vain, shadowy coruscations, shed
A visionary splendour. Darkened heart,
Where the sublime and true can enter not!
Where is the temple, there for the Supreme,
The altar fit for God? He comes not there
Where earthly passions rage, where persecution
Lights her unholy fires, where avarice broods
Over his sordid dreams, where love deserves not
The glory of its name; poor selfish passion,
Which desolates the heart—He comes not there.
Yet this is life—this is the education
Which the world gives its votaries. Early death,
Which comes with shadowing peace upon his wings,
And folds the young, unstained heart to heaven,
Its visions bright, its dearest hopes unbroken,
Its aspirations yet upon their flight,
Unsoiled by the world's dust, why do we mourn thee?
Valuing the sweet breath of the dewy morn,
Less than the heat, and toil, and battling day.