Sweet Auburn! o'er thy rolling slopes
The sparkling winter snows are spread;
Fast, fast the feathery flakes descend
O'er these calm dwellings of the dead;
And evening, with its thickening glooms,
Enshrouds the city of the tombs!
Yet ere the latest flame of day
Along these devious walks shall fade,
Let me across the breezy height
Still press, and through each sombrous glade,
And commune with this silent crowd,
In stony cell and swathing shroud.
Twilight enkindles with its blaze
White columns, glimmering all around;
High soaring obelisks, that throw
Their lengthened shadows o'er the ground;
And tapering shafts, and gleaming urns
Whereon day's latest incense burns.
Beneath this massy monument
With fretted roof and sculptured door, —
Beneath this gilded cenotaph,
With emblematic signs spread o'er, —
Who dwelleth? Let him forth appear,
To greet with hospitable cheer!
Within this marble dome, that well
A regal palace might adorn,
Who dwelleth? Let him bid its gates
Upon their brazen hinges turn;
Spread the soft couch and heap the board,
And cause the golden cup be poured.
The dead! the dead, the only guests!
And greedy Death the sullen host!
They sleep, they moulder back to dust;
Their shapes, their mortal features lost;
They hold no revel, keep no cheer;
No rolling chariot, save the bier.
No sparkle of red gold and gems
Within their rayless chamber shines;
No flaming lamp, no blazing torch ! —
All dark as India's caverned mines!
Nor jewelled crown, nor bridal rose,
O'er Beauty's shrouded forehead glows.
Across each dim embowered street
No flaunting cavalcade parades;
No war-horse, in gay trappings decked,
Prances and curvets through the shades;
No riders in brave vestments come,
With stormy trump and martial drum.
The hands that clasped the burnished sword,
Or aimed the battle's dripping spear;
Trained the dark gun, or curbed the steed,
Are rigid grown and nerveless here;
Hearts that once burned with fiery glow,
Extinct in ashes rest below.
Victors o'er land and sea repose
In dust together, side by side;
The same soft verdure o'er them grows,
Flowers bloom, by the same sunbeam dyed;
Their fights are o'er — the hungry worm
Banquets unheeded on their form.
The plumed troop, the clang of arms,
May ne'er these peaceful paths molest,
No roll of cannon, and no clash
Of hostile steel may break their rest;
War hath its own red fields to glean,
Where Death, the reaper, stalks unseen.
Here no long-drawn procession comes,
With bridal gauds and favors bright —
The soft bride pallid as the rose
That trembles in her tresses light;
The wedding song, the minstrel's lay,
Cheering the pageant on its way.
No bridegroom revels here but death;
No marriage supper; no vain show
Of jewels and of baubles rare;
No chaste embrace, no blushing glow;
No dainties on the sumptuous board;
No plighted ring, no wine-cup poured.
The call of merriment here finds
No echo — plaintively it dies
In sadness; and the jester's laugh
Subsides in scarcely whispered sighs;
Fashion's light gossip, Folly's tale
Sink to a murmured funeral wail.
The faithful dial-plate, that tells
The fading moments as they pass:
The swinging scythe, the fleeting wing,
Time's idle emblematic glass,
Warn the vain steps that hither tend,
How brief their sports, how quick to end!
How brittle life! and yet man weaves
The jocund dance upon its shore;
Joy plaits her rosy chaplet-leaves,
And twines the wreath fair foreheads o'er.
Intent these bodies to adorn,
We scarce perceive the lurking thorn.
Round whirls the giddy waltz of life,
And Youth and Love the rout prolong,
Soft-spoken vows and honeyed sighs
Blend with the gushes of the song;
Men heed not how their moments haste,
But lavish them with spendthrift waste.
They look not to the shadowy past,
Nor strive to pierce the future's gloom:
Or, if they e'er would scan its shore,
They picture it all smiles and bloom;
Green meads and fruitful valleys spread,
Streams flow, flowers spring beneath the tread.
Blind idlers all! they view no hand
Trace mystic bodings on the wall;
Amidst the streaming lamps they see
No shade of doom about to fall;
No sword with the impending blow;
No grave-coif woven for youthful brow.
They dance upon the sands of Time,
They pluck its fruits, they quaff its wine;
Far through o'er-leaning groves they stroll,
By crystal fountains they recline;
The lulling cup of bliss they drain,
Till it o'ermastereth the brain.
On death's swift river forth they cast
No glance, though balanced o'er its brink;
But from its turbid yeast of waves
Sick and affrighted backward shrink;
Recoil its broken bridge to cross
O'er whirlpools that so chafe and toss.
Vain dreamers! can they not discern
Their doom on Nature's every page?
Those frail memorials, that repeat
Man's certain fate from age to age;
The very flowers they wear to-day
In fading loveliness teach decay.
The painted cloud that sails above,
Printing no trace in its career;
And melting while the gazer looks,
To brighten o'er some distant sphere,
Through all its boundless journey's range
Inscribes its homily of change.
Stars glitter, and then pale their fires;
The moon exhausts her silver urn;
The sun consumes his sinking pyres,
And his red altars cease to burn;
The northern meteors far illume
The dome of night, then fade in gloom.
And Seasons pass! Spring's verdant wand
Quickens the juicy herb and shoot;
Blithe Summer passes crowned with flowers,
And Autumn weighed with luscious fruit,
Till Winter, with his icy spear
And snowy shield, o'ercomes the year.
[Extract]