Part 12 — ODE TO TIME.

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BY WM. GILMORE SIMMS, AUTHOR OF “YEMASSE,” “GUY RIVERS,” ETC.

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I.

Gray monarch of the waste of years,

Mine eyes have told thy steps in tears,

Yet yield I not to feeble fears,

In watching now thy flight;

The neck, long used to weighty yoke,

The tree, long shivered by the stroke,

The heart, by frequent torture broke,

Need fear no second blight.

II.

Oh! mine has been a mournful song—

My neck has felt the burden long—

My tree was shivered—weak and strong,

Beneath the bolt went down:

My heart—enough—thou canst not prey

On many in this later day;

The old, the young, were torn away,

Ere manhood’s wing had flown;

I saw the noble sire, who stood,

Majestic, as in crowded wood

The pine—and after him the brood—

All perish in thy frown!

III.

So, count my hopes, and know my fears,

And ask what now this life endears,

To him who gave, with many tears,

Each blossom of his love;

Whose store in heaven, so precious grown,

He counts each earthly moment flown,

As loss of something from his own,

In treasures stored above!

Denied to seek—to see—his store,

Yet daily adding more and more,

Some precious plant, that, left before,

The spoiler rends at last.

Not hard the task to number now,

The few that live to feel the blow;

The perished—count them on my brow—

With white hairs overcast!

IV.

White hairs—while yet each limb is strong,

To hold the right and crush the wrong;

Ere youth, in manhood’s struggling throng,

Had half pursued his way:

Thought premature, that still denied

The boy’s exulting sports—the pride,

That, with the blood’s unconscious tide,

Knew but to shout and play!

Youth, that in love’s first gush was taught

To see his fresh affection brought

To tears, and wo, and death—

While yet the fire was in his eye,

That told of passion’s victory—

And, in his ear, the first sweet sigh,

From beauty’s laboring breath.

V.

And manhood now—and loneliness—

With, oh! how few to love and bless,

Save those, who, in their dear duresse,

Look down from heaven’s high towers:

The stately sire, the gentle dame,

The maid who first awoke the flame,

That gave to both a mutual claim,

As fresh and frail as flowers!—

And all those dearest buds of bloom,

That simply sought on earth a tomb,

From birth to death, with rapid doom,

A bird-flight winged for fate:

How thick the shafts, how sure the aim!

What other passion wouldst thou tame,

O! Time, within this heart of flame,

Elastic, not elate?

VI.

Is’t pride?—methinks ’tis joy to bend;

My foe—he can no more offend;

My friend is false—I love my friend;

I love my foeman, too.

’Tis man I love—nor him alone—

The brute, the bird—its joy or moan

Not heedless to my heart hath gone—

I feel with all I view.

Wouldst have me worthy?—make me so;

But spare on other hearts the blow;

Spare, from the cruel pang, the wo,

The innocent, the bright!

On me thy vengeance!—’Tis my crime

That needs the scourge, and, in my prime,

’Twere fruitful of improving time,

Thy hand should not be light.

VII.

I bend me willing to thy thrall,

Whate’er thy doom, will bear it all—

Drink of the bitter cup of gall,

Nor once complain of thee!

Will poverty avail to chide,

Or sickness bend the soul of pride,

Or social scorn, still evil-eyed—

Have, then, thy will of me!

But spare the woman and the child;

Let me not see their features mild,

Distorted—hear their accents wild,

In agonizing pain:

Too much of this! I thought me sure.

In frequent pang and loss before;

I still have something to endure—

And tremble, and—refrain!

VIII.

On every shore they watch thy wing—

To some the winter, some the spring,

Thou bring’st, or yet art doomed to bring.

In rapid—rolling years:

How many seek thee, smiling now,

Who soon shall look with clouded brow,

Heart filled with bitter doubt and wo,

And eyes with gathering tears!

But late, they fancied—life’s parade

Still moving on—that not a shade

Thou flung’st on bower and sunny glade,

In which they took delight:

Sharp satirist! methinks I see

Thy glance in sternest mockery—

They little think, not seeing thee,

How fatal is thy flight;

What feathers grow beneath thy wing—

What darts—how poisoned—from what spring

Of torture—and how swift the sting—

How swift and sure the blight!

IX.

Enough!—the feeling has its way,

As thou hast had;—’tis not the lay

Of vain complaint—no idle play

Of fancy, dreaming care:

A mocking bitter, like thine own,

Wells up from fountains, deep and lone,

From core and spirit, soul and bone—

I’ve felt thee every where!

Thou’st mocked my hope and dashed my joy,

With keen rebuke and cold alloy;

The father, son, the man, the boy,

All, all! have felt the rod!

Perchance not all thy work in vain,

In softening soul, subduing brain,

If suffering, I submit to pain—

That minister of God!