When the young Eagle, with exulting eye, Has learn’d to dare the splendour of the sky, And leave the Alps beneath him in his course, To bathe his crest in morn’s empyreal source; Will his free wing, from that majestic height, Descend to follow some wild meteor’s light, Which far below, with evanescent fire, Shines to delude and dazzles to expire? No! still through clouds he wins his upward way, And proudly claims his heritage of day! --And shall the spirit, on whose ardent gaze The dayspring from on high hath pour’d its blaze, Turn from that pure effulgence to the beam Of earth-born light that sheds a treacherous gleam, Luring the wanderer from the star of faith To the deep valley of the shades of death? What bright exchange, what treasure shall be given, For the high birthright of its hope in heaven? If lost the gem which empires could not buy, What yet remains?--a dark eternity! Is earth still Eden?--might a seraph guest Still midst its chosen bowers delighted rest? Is all so cloudless and so calm below, We seek no fairer scenes than _life_ can show? That the cold Sceptic, in his pride elate, Rejects the promise of a brighter state, And leaves the rock no tempest shall displace, To rear his dwelling on the quicksand’s base? Votary of doubt! then join the festal throng, Bask in the sunbeam, listen to the song, Spread the rich board, and fill the wine-cup high, And bind the wreath ere yet the roses die! ’Tis well--thine eye is yet undimm’d by time, And thy heart bounds, exulting in its prime; Smile then unmoved at Wisdom’s warning voice, And in the glory of thy strength rejoice! But life hath sterner tasks; e’en youth’s brief hours Survive the beauty of their loveliest flowers; The founts of joy, where pilgrims rest from toil, Are few and distant on the desert soil; The soul’s pure flame the breath of storms must fan, And pain and sorrow claim their nursling--Man! Earth’s noblest sons the bitter cup have shared-- Proud child of reason! how art _thou_ prepared? When years, with silent might, thy frame have bow’d, And o’er thy spirit cast their wintry cloud, Will Memory soothe thee on thy bed of pain With the bright images of pleasure’s train? Yes! as the sight of some far-distant shore, Whose well-known scenes his foot shall tread no more, Would cheer the seaman, by the eddying wave Drawn, vainly struggling, to th’ unfathom’d grave! Shall Hope, the faithful cherub, hear thy call, She who, like heaven’s own sunbeam, smiles for all? Will _she_ speak comfort?--Thou hast shorn her plume, That might have raised thee far above the tomb, And hush’d the only voice whose angel tone Soothes when all melodies of joy are flown!