AMBITION’S BURIAL-GROUND.

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BY FRANCIS DE HAES JANVIER.

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“A late letter from California states that the writer counted six hundred new graves, in the course of his journey across the Plains.”

Far away, beyond the western mountains, lies a lovely land,

Where bright streamlets, gently gliding, murmur over golden sand,

Where in valleys fresh and verdant, open grottoes old and hoar,

In whose deep recesses treasured, glitter heaps of golden ore—

Lies a lovely land where Fortune long hath hidden priceless store.

But the path which leadeth thither, windeth o’er a dreary plain,

And the pilgrim must encounter weary hours of toil and pain,

Ere he reach those verdant vallies—ere he grasp the gold beneath;

Ay, the path is long and dreary, and disease, with poisonous breath,

Lurks around, and many a pilgrim finds it but the way to death.

Ay, the path is long and dreary—but thou canst not miss the way,

For, defiant of its dangers, thousands throng it night and day,

Pouring westward, as a river rolleth on in countless waves—

Old and young, alike impatient—all alike Ambition’s slaves—

Pressing, panting, pining, dying—strewing all the way with graves!

Thus, alas! Ambition ever leadeth men through burial plains—

Trooping on, in sad procession, melancholy funeral trains!

Hope stands smiling on the margin, but beyond are gloomy fears—

One by one, dark Disappointment wastes the castles Fancy rears—

All the air is filled with sighing—all the way with graves and tears!

Wouldst thou seek a wreath of glory on the ensanguined battle-field?

Know that to a single victor, thousands in subjection yield;

Thousands who with pulses beating high as his, the strife essayed—

Thousands who with arms as valiant, wielded each his shining blade—

Thousands who in heaps around him, vanquished, in the dust are laid!

Vanquished! while above the tumult, Victory’s trump, with swelling surge,

Sounds for him a song of triumph—sounds for them a funeral dirge!

E’en the laurel wreath he bindeth on his brow, their life-blood stains—

Sighs, and tears, and blood commingling, make the glory that he gains—

And unknown, sleeps many a hero, on Ambition’s burial plains!

Or, the purple field despising—deeming war’s red glory shame—

Wouldst thou, in seclusion, gather greener laurels, purer fame?

Stately halls Ambition reareth, all along her highway side—

Halls of learning, halls of science, temples where the arts abide—

Wilt thou here secure a garland woven by scholastic pride?

Ah! within those cloisters gloomy, dimly wastes the midnight oil—

Days of penury and sorrow alternate with nights of toil!

Countless crowds those portals enter, breathing aspirations high—

Youthful, ardent, self-reliant—each believing triumph nigh;

Countless crowds grow wan and weary, and within those portals die!

Ay, of all who enter thither, few obtain the proffered prize,

While unblest, unwept, unhonored, undeveloped genius dies!

Genius which had else its glory on remotest ages shown—

Beamed through History’s deathless pages, glowed on canvas, lived in stone—

Yet along Ambition’s way-side, fills it many a grave unknown!

But, perchance thou pinest only for those grottoes old and hoar,

In whose deep recesses hidden, Fortune heaps her glittering store:

Enter, then, the dreary pathway—but, above each lonely mound

Lightly tread, and pause to ponder—for, like those who slumber round,

Thou mayst also lie forgotten on Ambition’s burial ground!