by Camilla Toulmin.
Originally published in Ainsworth's Magazine: A Miscellany of Romance (Chapman and Hall) vol.2 #5 (1847).
No wonder poets choose thee for their theme,
Great Time! E'en if the lay be weak, 'twould seem,
From thy sublimity, to surely gain
Both power and glory,—borrowed not in vain;
For peerless attar, 'prisoned in dull clay,
Doth make the poor earth rich, though pass'd away,
Leaving a legacy of wealth behind.
'Tis thus we seek embodiment to find
Of those high thoughts, which, like an essence rare,
Men fain would bind and keep; for this they share
The subtle power or spirit with some thing
Of meaner quality, and strive to bring,
And hold, within their reach that spirit-power
Impalpable as fragrance from a flower.
So poets strive to summon at their call
Th' embalming words, which, if they come at all,
The best and brightest are but earthy things,
Dimming the radiance they should enshrine,
Too weak to follow Thoughts aspiring wings,
Or pierce the depths of its unfathom'd mine!
Thou of the iron rule, great Time!—the thought
Of thee is all so vast, we cannot hope
To find for it a prison in the scope
Of narrow words;—enough if there be caught
Some feeble sparks, in kindred minds to light
A flame, which there may grow more clear and bright.
They fashion thee, old Time, with wings outspread;
Yet I could think that sometimes they are furl'd,
When thou dost move with halt and lagging tread,
Casting a shadow on that inner world
The mind itself creates. Lovers do count
The shadow'd days of absence, dark indeed
To the true heart, which eagerly would mount
The car of Phœbus, that each lazy steed
Might mend its pace, and gallop to the goal
Which seems so sadly distant to his soul
Neither, methinks, hast thou too swift a flight
For him Ambition lures! Expectant wight,
Who struts along beneath his galling chain
Proudly, because 'tis gilt; looking in vain
To meteor fires, which mock his ardent chase,
Neglecting flowers he crushes in the race.
And there are others, too, who sometimes chide
The tardy pace of Time. In these there meet
Bright intellect and heart,—with the high tide
Of keen sensations;—waters pure and sweet
To mirror fleeting joys; but dark and deep
Their under currents, where ingulfed there sleep
The wrecks of precious things. And such do long
And yearn for years to swiftly pass along
Till "times" shall be less "out of joint" with all
Those revelations of a loftier state.
They see the twilight, and they feel the pall
Which covers this fair laughing earth—though late—
Will be by Time removed;—such would not stay
His rapid onward flight. Let him away!
What does Time rob us of—our youth!—That wealth
Which we look back on through the golden gate
That ne'er shall ope again. With heart elate,
Youth is but little prized, until by stealth
We feel it shrinking, like a hoarded store,
On which th' inheritor draws heavy drafts.
So they were just, methinks no bitter shafts
Are left to rankle when our youth is o'er.
Who would give back the fruits of riper years
For the mere blossoms, or the produce crude
Of the May-days of life—their hopes and fears?
Both hollow cheats, which most in youth intrude
To misdirect our steps:—the world we find,
Its joys and dangers, different to the mind,
(Greater or less, but still of different hue,)
From the false scenes they conjured to our view!
But myriad are the clinging memories,
Which unto earth's "tired denizens" must rise
Whene'er the mind, as now, just stays to mark
The pauseless tread of Time!—Into thy dark
And measureless abyss, Eternity,
A few more sands are dropt.—Eternity!
That is a thing too vast for human speech,
Which soaring thought indeed can never reach!
Enough, created Time sprang from thy womb,
Of which thou art as well the mighty tomb!
Let us not mourn the rapid flight of Time,
The world grows richer ev'ry hour we live;
Not in the drossy store of India's clime,
But in the dearer wealth that mind can give.
Pass o'er us then, old Time, with wings outspread,
Scatt'ring the blessings which shall still endure,
"Rip'ning and rotting" as our path we tread,
And healing wounds which only thou canst cure!