Onward, onward still they press,
Chasing still their airy dream,
All their hope is happiness,
"T is the universal theme.
Little birds on gaudy wings.
Seek it 'mid the summer sky,
Till the hunter's weapon rings
Through the forest, and-they die.
In the rattle's tinkling noise,
How it greets the smiling boy!
But soon vanish all his joys
At the breaking of the toy.
Shrined in gilded gingerbread
Childhood's eye its image sees;
But when hunger has been fed,
Soon the baubles cease to please.
More matured, the lightsome girl
Seeks in dress the wished-for prize,
Trims with care the artful curl
To attract her lover's eyes
And, with riband neat arrayed,
Dons her hat of shining straw,
Proud to be the gayest maid
That her village ever saw.
But, alas! a storm comes on,
Furious blasts sweep o'er the plain,
Hat and happiness are gone,
Deluged by the drenching rain.
Where seeks manhood? where seeks age? Some in pleasure, some in fame;
Some from learning's gifted page
Strive to build themselves a name.
Some in wealth the shade pursue,
But when near the hunted prize,
Ever to their wish untrue,
Farther still the phantom flies.
Know, ye seekers, 't is alone
In Religion's path she goes, Pointing ever to His throne,
Whence the stream of pleasure flows.
Though this earth has show of cheer,
Hence no lasting bliss is given,
Happiness may visit here,
But she dwells alone in Heaven.
And I said, Oh that I had wings like a dove! for then would I fly away, and be at rest.
WOULD that I were a dove! with silvery wing,
To soar 'mid æther in the blue expanse,
From this cold earth in joyous flight to spring,
And with bright views my longing eyes entrance;
Then would I fly away and be at rest,
My soul no more with heaviness oppressed.
Upborne with swiftest pinions on my way,
Far would I rise beyond the source of light,
Nearer the regions of unclouded day,
Whilst mortal prospects vanish from my sight:
These transient scenes I'd leave without remorse,
And Heavenward urge my gladsome, eager course.
Then, as the traveller o'er some desert spot, Fatigued and parched beneath the noonday beams, At eve, attain some cool sequestered grot,
And find refreshing shade and limpid streams; There would my wearied breast enjoy repose, And bliss more pure than all the world bestows. D. F. M.
|