Hence do we tremble in our happiness;
Hurried and dim, the unknown hours press;—
We question of the grief we cannot guess.
The Future is more present than the Past:
For one look back, a thousand on we cast;
And hope doth ever memory outlast.
For hope, say fear. Hope is a timid thing,
Fearful and weak, and born 'mid suffering;—
At least, such hope as our sad earth can bring.
Its home, it is not here, it looks beyond;
And while it carries an enchanter's wand,
Its spells are conscious of their earthly bond.
We almost fear the presence of our joy;
It doth tempt Fate, the stern one, to destroy,
Fate in whose hands this world is as a toy.
We dearly buy our pleasures, we repay
By some deep suffering; or they decay
Or change to pain, and curse us by their stay.
A world of ashes is beneath our feet—
Cold ashes of each beautiful deceit,
Owned by long silent hearts, that beat as ours now beat.
How can we trust our own? we waste our breath;
We heap up hope and joy in one bright wreath;—
Our altar is the grave—our priest is death.
But, ah! death is repose;—'tis not our doom,—
The cold, the calm, that haunts my soul with gloom:
I tremble at the passage to the tomb.
Love mine—what depths of misery may be
In the dark future!—I may meet thine eye,
Cold, careless, and estranged, before I die.
All grief is possible, and some is sure;
How can the loving heart e'er feel secure,
And e'er it breaks it may so much endure?
We had not lived had the past been foreshown;
Ah! merciful the shadow round us thrown.—
Thank heaven, the future is at least unknown!
