There was a festive hall with mirth resounding;
Beauty and wit, and friendliness surrounding;
With minstrelsy above, and dancing feet rebounding.
And at the height came news, that held suspended
The sparkling glass!—till slow the hand descended—
And cheeks grew pale and straight—and all the mirth was ended.
Beneath a sunny sky, ’twas heard with wonder,
A flash had cleft a lofty tree asunder,
Without a previous cloud—and with no rolling thunder.
Strong was the stem—its boughs above all ’thralling—
And in its roots and sap no cankers galling—
Prosperity was perfect, while Death’s hand was falling.
Man’s body is less safe than any tree;
We build our ship in strong security—
A Finger, from the dark, points to the trembling sea.
Man, like his knowledge, and his soul’s endeavour,
Is framed for no fixed altitude—but ever
Moves onward: the first pause, returns all to the Giver.
Riches and health, fine taste, all means of pleasure;
Success in highest efforts—fame’s best treasure—
All these were thine,—o’ertopped—and over-weighed the measure.
But in recording thus life’s night-shade warning,
We hold the memory of thy kind heart’s morning:—
Man’s intellect is not man’s sole nor best adorning.