by Mrs. Caulton.
Originally published in Bradshaw's Manchester Journal (Bradshaw & Blacklock) vol.1 #27 (30 Oct 1841).
"Bring wine, bring wine, to the festive board,
Full and high be the goblet stored;
Quaff the draught mid the incense high
Of song, and laugh, and revelry;
Poets may rave of the flowing rill,
Ours be the rosy grape-cup still,
Minstrels may chant of the sparkling spring,
Be ours the brilliancy wine will bring—
Give wine, give wine!"
The sick man lay on his couch of down,
And vassals moved at his nod or frown;
Beside his bed is a crystal cup,
And with purple juice it is blushing up;
He moves, he speaks, what needs he now?
Is there not wine, for his pallid brow?
Will not the dew of the grape so much
As cool the flame of his fevered touch?
Oh! what doth he ask for, that dying king?
"Bring water! fresh water! cold from the spring!"
A gay saloon, a crowded hall;
Perfumed lamps, for a festival;
Rich and lustrous the jewels shone,
A kingdom's ransom were worth but one;
Rare flowers shed their od'rous breath,
And gleam'd in the hair, a fairy wreath;
Sculptured figures of Parian stone
Bent in their beauty,—as though, alone,
They stood in the light of a Grecian sky,
And worshippers knelt in ecstacy;—
Methinks 'twere well to be lord of all
The wealth on the mirror'd and pictured wall;
'Twere surely well to receive the meed
Of high renown and chivalrous deed;
Yet, with sickly look, and faint reply,
The lord of that splendour passes by;
He bends his form with a feeble wail,
His colourless cheek is yet more pale,
Something he murmurs in faintness there,—
"Away, away!—give me air, fresh air!"
Take one from the city's living horde;
Unto him be Earth's choicest treasures poured;
Load him with gifts, and gems, and gold,
With robes of price, and wealth untold;
Be his name like a flaming beacon spread,
His deeds in the page of truth be read;
Yet years speed on; his hair is grey,
Life's long shadows darken his day,
And the dream has passed,—with paces slow,
Back to their homes the mourners go,
The state is over, the funeral done,
The world's last goal at length been won;
For with closed eye, and nerveless breast,
On his "Mother Earth," he is laid to rest.
Oh! is it not thus in our moral life?
We run for glory, we strive with strife,
We toil for riches, we labour for fame,
That fading wreath, to a dying name:
Till wearied, and spent, and the sweet revealings
That nature could breathe to our purer feelings;
The hopes and pleasures she scatters by,
Whether dark the clouds or sunny the sky;
The heart's best treasures, faith, hope, and love,
We lightly scorn;—and when are wove
The twining folds of that silver cord
On which the deeds of a life are stored,
Worthless and soiled, its length is shewn;
Alas! alas! the work is our own.