RED o’er the forest peers the setting sun, | |
| The line of yellow light dies fast away | |
| That crowned the eastern copse: and chill and dun | |
| Falls on the moor the brief November day. | |
| |
| Now the tired hunter winds a parting note, | 5 |
| And Echo bids good-night from every glade; | |
| Yet wait awhile, and see the calm leaves float | |
| Each to his rest beneath their parent shade. | |
| |
| How like decaying life they seem to glide! | |
| And yet no second spring have they in store, | 10 |
| But where they fall, forgotten to abide | |
| Is all their portion, and they ask no more. | |
| |
| Soon o’er their heads blithe April airs shall sing | |
| A thousand wild-flowers round them shall unfold, | |
| The green buds glisten in the dews of Spring, | 15 |
| And all be vernal rapture as of old. | |
| |
| Unconscious they in waste oblivion lie, | |
| In all the world of busy life around | |
| No thought of them; in all the bounteous sky, | |
| No drop, for them, of kindly influence found. | 20 |
| |
| Man’s portion is to die and rise again— | |
| Yet he complains, while these unmurmuring part | |
| With their sweet lives, as pure from sin and stain, | |
| As his when Eden held his virgin heart. | |
| |
| And haply half unblamed his murmuring voice | 25 |
| Might sound in Heaven, were all his second life | |
| Only the first renewed—the heathen’s choice, | |
| A round of listless joy and weary strife. | |
| |
| For dreary were this earth, if earth were all, | |
| Tho’ brightened oft by dear Affection’s kiss;— | 30 |
| Who for the spangles wears the funeral pall? | |
| But catch a gleam beyond it, and ’tis bliss. | |
| |
| Heavy and dull this frame of limbs and heart, | |
| Whether slow creeping on cold earth, or borne | |
| On lofty steed, or loftier prow, we dart | 35 |
| O’er wave or field: yet breezes laugh to scorn | |
| |
| Our puny speed, and birds, and clouds in heaven, | |
| And fish, like living shafts that pierce the main, | |
| And stars that shoot through freezing air at even— | |
| Who but would follow, might he break his chain? | 40 |
| |
| And thou shalt break it soon; the grovelling worm | |
| Shall find his wings, and soar as fast and free | |
| As his transfigured Lord with lightning form | |
| And snowy vest—such grace He won for thee. | |
| |
| When from the grave He sprang at dawn of morn, | 45 |
| And led through boundless air thy conquering road, | |
| Leaving a glorious track, where saints, new-born, | |
| Might fearless follow to their blest abode. | |
| |
| But first, by many a stern and fiery blast | |
| The world’s rude furnace must thy blood refine, | 50 |
| And many a gale of keenest woe be passed, | |
| Till every pulse beat true to airs divine. | |
| |
| Till every limb obey the mounting soul, | |
| The mounting soul, the call by Jesus given. | |
| He who the stormy heart can so control, | 55 |
| The laggard body soon will waft to Heaven. | |
| |
