Thy thorny journey to the gate of Heaven?
Up, 'tis no dreaming-time! awake! awake!
For He who sits on the high Judge's seat,
Doth in his record note each wasted hour,
Each idle word. Take heed, thy shrinking soul
Find not their weight too heavy, when it stands
At that dread bar, from whence is no appeal.
Lo, while ye trifle, the light sand steals on
Leaving the hour-glass empty, and thy life
Glideth away,—stamp wisdom on its hours.
THE GRAVE.
Who in a faithful breast our frailties hides
Breathing them not to the invidious ear,
But with oblivions mantle covering all?
Friendship?
Alas! Her most immaculate shrine
Hath sometimes yielded to the traitor's key,
And she with Luna's ever-varying phase
Reveal'd her own infirmity. The Grave,
The voiceless Grave shall be to thee a friend
Who breaks no promise and no trust betrays.
—What hand our virtues decks with fadeless bloom,
Throwing fresh fragrance o'er their timid buds?
Memory?
—Ah, no!—She, like a reaper blind,
Or impotent with age, oft gathereth tares
Into her garner, and doth leave the wheat
