deplore
Lost hours, lost friends, lost pleasures; and the bad
Are racked by throes of impotent remorse,
Dark, fierce, and bitter; for _themselves_ are lost,
And still neglecting what remains of life,
They strive by backward reachings to redeem
The irredeemable. _Why_ pass the hours,
The fleeting hours, in profitless regrets,
When each regret but lops _another_ bough,
Full of green promise, from the tree of life?
You, who in your bereavement truly feel
This truth, expressed so sadly and so well:
'Joy's recollection is no longer joy,
While Sorrow's memory is sorrow still;'
I counsel to recant your vows, and come
With me to worship at a better shrine,
The shrine of Morning.
Morning is the hour
Of vigorous thought, unconquerable hope,
And high endeavor. All our powers, in sleep
Bathed, nurtured, clad, and strung with nerves of steel,
Rise from their brief oblivion keen with health,
And strong for struggling, and we feel that toil
Is toil's own recompense. I deem that Man
Is not a retrospective being; for his course
Is on, still on; and never should his eyes
Turn back, but to detect his errors past,
And shun them in his future steps. Too long,
Ah! much too long, O world! and oft I've gazed
In awe and wonder on thy midnight sleep,
While magic Memory, singly or in groups,
Upon her faded tablets re-produced
Fair and familiar forms of Love and Joy.
Oh! _so_ familiar were they, and so fair,
Though dim, those blessed faces, that my eyes
Grew tremulous with the dew of unshed tears.
The gaze hath hurt me. It hath taken their rest
And natural joy from body and spirit, and worn
Too fast the wheel-work of this frail machine.
And now, oh! sleeping Nature! while the stars
Smile on thy face, and I in fancy hear
The low pulsations of thy dormant life,
And feel thy mighty bosom heave and fall
With regular breathings; through _my_ little world
I feel Disease advancing on his sure
And stealthy mission. Well I know his step,
The wily traitor! when I mark my short,
Quick respirations; and his call I know,
As, in the hush of night, my ear alarmed
By the heart's death-march notes, repeats its strange
And audible beatings.
Down! grim spectre, down!
Flap not thy wings across my face, nor let
Thy ghastly visage, horrible shadow! freeze
My staring eye-balls! Let me fly, O Death!