Behold this Ruin! ’twas a skull,
Once of ethereal spirit full,
This narrow cell was life’s retreat,
This space was thought’s mysterious seat.
What beauteous pictures fill’d this spot!
What dreams of pleasure long forgot!
Nor Love, nor Joy, nor Hope, nor Fear,
Has left one trace or record here.
Beneath this mouldering canopy
Once shone the bright and busy eye!
But start not at the dismal void,
If social love that eye employ’d;
If with no lawless fire it gleam’d,
But thro’ the dew of kindness beam’d,
The eye shall be for ever bright,
When stars and suns have lost their light.
Here in this silent cavern hung
The ready, swift, and tuneful tongue,
If falsehood’s honey it disdain’d,
And where it could not praise, was chain’d;
If bold in virtue’s cause--it spoke,
Yet gentle concord never broke,
That tuneful tongue shall plead for thee,
When Death unveils eternity.
Say, did these fingers delve the mine,
Or with its envied rubies shine?
To hew the rock, or wear the gem,
Can nothing now avail to them:
But if the page of truth they sought,
Or comfort to the mourner brought,
These hands a richer mead shall claim
Than all that waits on wealth and fame.
Avails it whether bare or shod,
These feet the path of duty trod?
If from the bowers of joy they fled
To seek affliction’s humble bed,
If grandeur’s guilty bribe they spurn’d,
And home to virtue’s hope return’d,
These feet with angel wings shall fly,
And tread the palace of the sky.[442]
[442] From the _Morning Chronicle_, Sept. 14, 1821.
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