Do ye boast, ye pines, so gray and old, Storms to brave, with thunderbolts to sport? And, ye hills, that ye the heavens uphold? And, ye heavens, that ye the suns support! Boasts the graybeard, who on haughty deeds As on billows, seeks perfection's height? Boasts the hero, whom his prowess leads Up to future glory's temple bright! If the gnawing worms the floweret blast, Who can madly think he'll ne'er decay? Who above, below, can hope to last, If the young man's life thus fleets away? Joyously his days of youth so glad Danced along, in rosy garb beclad, And the world, the world was then so sweet! And how kindly, how enchantingly Smiled the future,--with what golden eye Did life's paradise his moments greet! While the tear his mother's eye escaped, Under him the realm of shadows gaped And the fates his thread began to sever,-- Earth and Heaven then vanished from his sight. From the grave-thought shrank he in affright-- Sweet the world is to the dying ever! Dumb and deaf 'tis in that narrow place, Deep the slumbers of the buried one! Brother! Ah, in ever-slackening race All thy hopes their circuit cease to run! Sunbeams oft thy native hill still lave, But their glow thou never more canst feel; O'er its flowers the zephyr's pinions wave, O'er thine ear its murmur ne'er can steal; Love will never tinge thine eye with gold, Never wilt thou embrace thy blooming bride, Not e'en though our tears in torrents rolled-- Death must now thine eye forever hide! Yet 'tis well!--for precious is the rest, In that narrow house the sleep is calm; There, with rapture sorrow leaves the breast,-- Man's afflictions there no longer harm. Slander now may wildly rave o'er thee, And temptation vomit poison fell, O'er the wrangle on the Pharisee, Murderous bigots banish thee to hell! Rogues beneath apostle-masks may leer, And the bastard child of justice play, As it were with dice, with mankind here, And so on, until the judgment day! O'er thee fortune still may juggle on, For her minions blindly look around,-- Man now totter on his staggering throne, And in dreary puddles now be found! Blest art thou, within thy narrow cell! To this stir of tragi-comedy, To these fortune-waves that madly swell, To this vain and childish lottery, To this busy crowd effecting naught, To this rest with labor teeming o'er, Brother!--to this heaven with devils--fraught, Now thine eyes have closed forevermore.