THE WORLD I SAW Eternity the other night, Like a great ring of pure and endless light, And round beneath it, Time in hours, days, years, Driv'n by the spheres Like a vast shadow mov'd; in which the world And all her train were hurl'd. The doting lover in his quaintest strain Did there complain; Near him, his lute, his fancy, and his slights, Wit's sour delights; With gloves, and knots the silly snares of pleasure, Yet his dear treasure, All scatter'd lay, while he his eyes did pour The darksome statesman, hung with weights and woe, 7 15 Like a thick midnight-fog, moved there so slow, He did nor stay, nor go; Condemning thoughts-like sad eclipses-scowl Upon his soul, And clouds of crying witnesses without Yet digg'd the mole, and lest his ways be Work'd under ground, Where he did clutch his prey; but one did see Churches and altars fed him; perjuries It rain'd about him blood and tears, but he The fearful miser on a heap of rust Sate pining all his life there, did scarce trust His own hands with the dust, Yet would not place one piece above, but lives In fear of thieves. Thousands there were as frantic as himself, And hugg'd each one his pelf; The down-right epicure plac'd heav'n in sense, And scorn'd pretence; While others, slip'd into a wide excess, Said little less; The weaker sort slight, trivial wares enslave, And poor, despised Truth sate counting by 45 Yet some, who all this while did weep and sing. And sing, and weep, soar'd up into the ring; But most would use no wing. 30 O fools-said I-thus to prefer dark night To live in grots and caves, and hate the day The way, which from this dead and dark abode Leads up to God; A way where you might tread the sun, and be More bright than he! But as I did their madness so discuss, One whisper'd thus, TELL me not, in mournful numbers, Life is real! Life is earnest! Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, 8 12 1838. Art is long, and Time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave. In the world's broad field of battle, Be not like dumb, driven cattle! Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! Heart within, and God o'erhead! Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, Footprints on the sands of time; Footprints, that perhaps another, Let us, then, be up and doing, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 16 29 24 28 32 36 |