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POEMS BY ACTON BELLUNTITLED
Oh, Youth may listen patiently,
While sad Experience tells her tale,
But Doubt sits smiling in his eye,
For ardent Hope will still prevail!
He hears how feeble Pleasure dies,
By guilt destroyed, and pain and woe;
He turns to Hope--and she replies,
"Believe it not-it is not so!"
"Oh, heed her not!" Experience says;
"For thus she whispered once to me;
She told me, in my youthful days,
How glorious manhood`s prime would be.
"When, in the time of early Spring,
Too chill the winds that o`er me pass`d,
She said, each coming day would bring
a fairer heaven, a gentler blast.
"And when the sun too seldom beamed,
The sky, o`ercast, too darkly frowned,
The soaking rain too constant streamed,
And mists too dreary gathered round;
"She told me, Summer`s glorious ray
Would chase those vapours all away,
And scatter glories round;
With sweetest music fill the trees,
Load with rich scent the gentle breeze,
And strew with flowers the ground
"But when, beneath that scorching ray,
I languished, weary through the day,
While birds refused to sing,
Verdure decayed from field and tree,
And panting Nature mourned with me
The freshness of the Spring.
"`Wait but a little while,` she said,
`Till Summer`s burning days are fled;
And Autumn shall restore,
With golden riches of her own,
And Summer`s glories mellowed down,
The freshness you deplore.`
And long I waited, but in vain:
That freshness never came again,
Though Summer passed away,
Though Autumn`s mists hung cold and chill.
And drooping nature languished still,
And sank into decay.
"Till wintry blasts foreboding blew
Through leafless trees--and then I knew
That Hope was all a dream.
But thus, fond youth, she cheated me;
And she will prove as false to thee,
Though sweet her words may seem.
Stern prophet! Cease thy bodings dire--
Thou canst not quench the ardent fire
That warms the breast of youth.
Oh, let it cheer him while it may,
And gently, gently die away--
Chilled by the damps of truth!
Tell him, that earth is not our rest;
Its joys are empty--frail at best;
And point beyond the sky.
But gleams of light may reach us here;
And hope the ROUGHEST path can cheer:
Then do not bid it fly!
Though hope may promise joys, that still
Unkindly time will ne`er fulfil;
Or, if they come at all,
We never find them unalloyed,--
Hurtful perchance, or soon destroyed,
They vanish or they pall;
Yet hope ITSELF a brightness throws
O`er all our labours and our woes;
While dark foreboding Care
A thousand ills will oft portend,
That Providence may ne`er intend
The trembling heart to bear.
Or if they come, it oft appears,
Our woes are lighter than our fears,
And far more bravely borne.
Then let us not enhance our doom
But e`en in midnight`s blackest gloom
Expect the rising morn.
Because the road is rough and long,
Shall we despise the skylark`s song,
That cheers the wanderer`s way?
Or trample down, with reckless feet,
The smiling flowerets, bright and sweet,
Because they soon decay?
Pass pleasant scenes unnoticed by,
Because the next is bleak and drear;
Or not enjoy a smiling sky,
Because a tempest may be near?
No! while we journey on our way,
We`ll smile on every lovely thing;
And ever, as they pass away,
To memory and hope we`ll cling.
And though that awful river flows
Before us, when the journey`s past,
Perchance of all the pilgrim`s woes
Most dreadful--shrink not--`tis the last!
Though icy cold, and dark, and deep;
Beyond it smiles that blessed shore,
Where none shall suffer, none shall weep,
And bliss shall reign for evermore!
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