Poems (Hornblower)/The World
For works with similar titles, see The World.
THE WORLD.
The world must have its own; The best, the truest heartMust bow before its idol-throne, And act the trifler's part;The world must have its own indeed,Though the young hearts of thousands bleed.
It takes the trust from youth, And manhood's nobler faith;From life its holiest truth, And all its hopes from death:The world! the world! the blight is there,And with its breath it brings despair.
Their earliest bloom is gone, I see them passing on,As victims to then doom; They dance, and sing, and smile,Nor do they dream the while,Of the dark ills to come.
Death? nothing half so sweet, So sacred, and so calm;But feverish cares that eat The soul, and find no balm;Envy, and pride, and fashion's strife,That take the holiest bloom from life.
Not such, not such wert thou, With thy young sainted brow,Speaking of purer things; Thy smiles that breathed of peace,Not from a world like this—Such as it never brings!
In its polluted throng, I saw thee move along,As of a holier sphere; And Heaven, which marked its own,Called to a loftier throne,Forbade thy lingering here.
Ah yes! I joy to know That thou art saved from theseCares, doubts, and vanities, And even deeper woe;The world, the world can never thrillThat young heart with one pang of ill!