Oh what are earthly crowns and earthly bliss, And pride's delusive dreams, compared with this? Ambition's laurel, purchased with a flood Of human tears and stained with kindred blood, Once gained, converted to a crown of thorns, Pierces the aching temples it adorns-- Not Sappho's lyre, nor Raphael's deathless art Can twine the olive round the bleeding heart; In heaven alone the promised blessing lies, And those who seek--must seek it in the skies! Seek it through Him who, humbling human pride, Wept o'er man's fall, and for his ransom died; Poured out his blood on the accursed tree, To break the chain and set the captive free. Heaven bowed its glory on the cross to teach That greatness man's lost nature could not reach, The true humility, which stoops to rise, And, leaving earth, claims kindred with the skies.
How many pages have been blotted o'er With heartfelt tears, that now are read no more; And, like the eyes that long have ceased to weep, In dust and darkness quite forgotten sleep! Dead to the world as if they ne'er had been The favoured actors in one little scene. The scene is changed--and, like their fleeting-fame, The fickle world adores another name. They knew the price at which its praise was bought; The glittering bauble was not worth a thought; Yet, Esau like, a better birthright sold, And for base counterfeit exchanged the gold!
Ere man presumptuously his genius boasts, Let him reflect upon the countless hosts, The untold myriads, of each age and clime, That sleep forgotten in the grave of time. What were their names! Go ask the silent sod Their deeds--their record lives but with their God! At every step we tread on kindred earth, Nor know the spot that gave our fathers birth. Oh! could we call before our wondering eyes All that have lived--and bid the dead arise, From the first moment the Creator spoke The word of power, and light through darkness broke, And see earth covered with the mighty tide Of all who on her bosom lived and died, What a stupendous thought would fill the soul Could we behold life's breathing ocean roll Its human billows onward--and the mass The grave has swallowed, down from Adam, pass In one unbroken stream--the brain would reel-- Lost in immensity, would cease to feel! Whilst living, ah, how few were known to fame! One in a million has not left a name,-- A single token, on life's shifting scene, To tell to other years that such has been. Yet man, unaided by a hope sublime, Thinks that his puny arm can cope with time; That his vast genius can reverse the doom, And shed a deathless light upon his tomb; That distant ages shall his worth admire, And young hearts kindle at the sacred fire Of him whose fame no envious clouds o'ercast, Yet died forgotten and unknown at last.