A watchful eye and a strong, true hand Will carry us under the Judge’s stand, If prayer, too, does its part; And little by little the struggling soul Will grow and strengthen and gain control Over the passionate heart.
Ho! sportsman Time, whose chargers fleet The moments, madly driven, Beat in the dust beneath their feet Sweet hopes that years have given; Turn, turn aside those reckless steeds, Oh! do not urge them my way; There’s nothing that Time wants or needs In this contented by-way.
You have down-trodden, in your race, So much that proves your power, Why not avoid my humble place? Why rob me of my dower? With your vast cellars, cavern deep, Packed tier on tier with treasures, You would not miss them should I _keep_ My little store of pleasures.
As one who, frightened, flying, flings Her riches down at random, Your course is paved with precious things Life casts before your tandem: The warrior’s fame, the conqueror’s crown, Great creeds for ages cherished, Beneath your chariot-wheels were thrown, And, crushed to earth, they perished.
Although to just and generous deeds Your heart is not a stranger, I have the feeling that one needs To guard his wealth from danger. And though a most heroic light Oft on your pathway lingers, I’d hide my treasures, if I might, From contact with your fingers.
You are the loyal friend of Truth, Go seek her, make her stronger, And leave the remnant of my youth To me a little longer. There’s work enough for you before Eternity shall wed you: Why stoop to steal my simple store? Why make me shun and dread you?
You do not need my joys, I say, Home, love, and friends united— I beg you turn and go the way Where wrong waits to be righted; Or pause, and let us chat a while: I’ll listen—not too near you, For oh! no matter how you smile, I fear you, Time, I fear you!
Regret with streaming eyes doth seem alway A maiden widowed on her wedding day.
While dark Remorse, with eyes too sad for tears, A crushed, desponding Magdalene appears.
One, with a hungering heart unsatisfied, Mourns for imagined joys that were denied.
The other, pierced by recollected sin, Broods o’er the scars of pleasures that have been.
A truth that has long lain buried At Superstition’s door, I see, in the dawn uprising In all its strength once more.