There are the bowers, whose bloom shall ne'er decay,
While all inferior glories fade away;
There shall the wanderers meet, the weary there,
In songs of everlasting triumph share.
Vanity of Human Pursuits.
ON yonder sunny hills, when summer's prime
With leaf and flower the blooming earth hath strowed,
The bees return from beds of rose and thyme,
Solicitous to house the fragrant load.
See, how the labor rages far and wide,
And hurried murmers fill the peopled air!
So busy men rush forth from side to side;
For weary foot and hand they take no care;
But dig, and build, and reap, all rushing here and there.
'T is work and bustle, strife and turmoil rude;
The object various, wealth, enjoyment, power;
No matter what, 't is ever well pursued;
They tug, they strive, they sweat their little hour.
As when Wyandot Indians, one and all,
Far in the woody depths of Michigan,
Are gathered to their favorite game of ball,
"T is running, pushing, shrieking, "catch who can," And he, who scrambles best, is every inch a man.
Some lift the sail, and launching from the shore, To distant lands their venturous arts proclaim. Some dig the earth, and clutch the shining ore, And with their golden ingots build a name. Some lend an ear to loud Ambition's cry. Various the means, but self the mighty end. Whate'er the many methods, which they try, To this they all, with faithful instinct bend. "This is the Ball they kick;" for this one prize contend,
I would not say, that all alike are found
Restricted to this low and selfish aim;
That none have power to take the upward bound,
And kindred with a higher purpose claim.
There are some chosen ones; but few, alas!
The multitude rush on the general way.
Lift up thine eye, and see them as they pass;
All have their mark, and easy 't is to say,
Where, in the mighty rout, each shall his name display.
First come, with hurried gait, the motley tribe,
Sallow and lean, the men of fees and rent,
Who add to what they earn, the secret bribe,
And call it but another "cent per cent."
With pen suspended on the knowing ear,
And spectacles astride, they con their book;
But when the sudden fall of stocks they hear,
What heaven of joy doth fill their altered look;
They dart like hungry pikes, and catch the baited hook.
Thus is the shearer shorn, the catcher caught;
With features long and grim they hurry back;
But still, alike by loss and gain untaught,
Once more their plodding CEREBRUM they rack,
Their ledger and their day-book fingering still;
And bone and muscle, heart and conscience wear.
And what good end or purpose to fulfill?
"Tis answered in a word. This life of care
Shall gratify the lusts of some mean, spendthrift heir.
And there are those of "Epicurus' stye,"
A mighty brood, poor children of the dust.
Oh, who will show us any good, they cry,
Not mental good, but which subserves to lust?
They press the ruddy goblet to the lip;
"Wine merry makes the heart," at once they sing;
And then they laughing take the other sip;
When, lo, the arches high "uproarious" ring,
And he, who's clothed in rags, is every inch a king.
Pleasure they call their God, and sure it is ;
But fire-eyed adders lurk within their bowl.
See how the spotted monsters turn and hiss;
Then fierce and sudden sting the wretch's soul.
And who will help them now? They shriek, they run;
But find, alas, too mighty is their chain;
Before another day's declining sun,
They seek the haunts of revelry again.
They drink the pleasure first, then howling rue the pain.
Go where they dwell, when revelry is o'er,
And mark what other sorrows crown their sin;
Slow on its rusty hinges creaks the door,
And all is dirt and raggedness within.
A single brand is smouldering on the hearth;
The wretched mother sits in silence there;
Her children show no bliss, no wonted mirth;
Their mouths are hungry, and their limbs are bare;
The stupid father nods, drunk in his broken chair.
"Fair laughs the morn," and pleasant is the breeze, And yonder rolls the "Bay of Biscay, O!"
Thus sings the sailor, as he treads the seas,
And mountain high his gallant bark doth go.
'Tis his upon the ocean's path to roam;
Through flood and storm, with jolly heart he steers,
And little cares he for his father's home,
And little thinks he of his mother's tears,
Who held him on her knees, and kissed his childish years.
"The world is all before him," where to seek
From every land its congregated spoil.
Now waves his flag o'er distant Mozambique,
Now floats triumphant at the seven-mouthed Nile,
Where Cæsar sat at Cleopatra's side.
Anon behold him in his ceasless flight,
Bounding along with favoring wind and tide, Where Syrian shepherds watch the starry night, Or "where Chineses drive their cany wagons light."
Vain man! He thinks not of the Higher Power,
Whose hand controls the mighty ocean's roar.
Alas! He comes in no propitious hour,
And smites thee in thy glory, ship and store.
Yes, ere to-morrow's blazing sun shall set,
The ocean, that should bear thee as a friend,
No longer laughing like a rivulet,
Shall plank and mast and sail and cable rend,
And thou, a drowning fly, thy little life shalt end.
Next comes the Soldier, mark'd with scratch and scar,
Preceded loud with clanging trump and drums;
The mob recoil before this God of War,
And throw their caps: "the conquering hero comes."
Slow move his coursers; he, with laurelled head,
Bends low, and utters meek some grateful word,
And then, as if to rouse the sleeping dead,
The multitude, to slavish homage stirred,
Make yet again their throat with horrid uproar heard.
And why is all this humble homage given?
The suppliant knee, the tributary eye?
Why ring the arches of the troubled heaven,
When thus a fellow mortal passes by?
Alas, what folly marks this idle state,
And most of all, in those who plaudits give.
'T is true the silly world have called him great,
And deem his glorious name shall ever live.
But what reward shall he from Virtue's hand receive!
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