Poems (Holford)/The Pursuit
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THE PURSUIT.
I've often thought, the world around
Might echo to our footsteps' sound,
While social scene, and desert drear,
Alike our vagrant track might bear,
And we might roll our searching eyes
Round native, and round foreign skies,
And still the soother Friendship find
A gay chimera of the mind;
A flame, blown up by Fancy's breath,
A flower, to deck the poet's wreath,
A wandering meteor, which pursued
Would still the following step elude;
A painted charm from Circe's bower,
Which, like the bow in summer shower
Would gleam across the gloomy sky,
Then fade upon the baffled eye,
And leave it aching to deplore
Those colours which are bright no more:
But yet a whisper from within
Urg'd me this shadowy prize to win;
Each heart with life's warm current fraught
Must still pursue some favorite thought;
And never must the heaving breast
Till the last silence, hope to rest:
Nay, even in the hermit's cell,
Where dank oblivion seems to dwell,
Scattering her slumb'rous dews around,
And shedding thick her mists profound,
Nature's true spark, tho' languid, burns,
And the dim spirit world-ward turns!
Still, still we see earth's giddy race
All pushing on with eager pace,
The grave, the gay, the sage, the vain,
Some gilded trifle to obtain!
Various their aims, alike their toil;
Some seek an empire, some a smile,
Some ask for wealth, and some for fame,
And pant and labour for a name!
I smil'd to see the crowd pursue,
Yet felt the restless impulse too.
"Perchance," said I, "my anxious breast
Throbs for a bauble like the rest;
Friendship may prove an emptier name
Than even power, or wealth, or fame—
But what of that! the doom is past,
And all must run to drop at last;
And if the toy should disappear,
Elusive of my vain career,
Yet all who run beneath the sky,
Have follow'd cheats as well as I!"
Philosophy, with brow severe,
Turn'd slowly from his task austere,
And bade me think before I ran,
Nor waste on dream's life's little span;
Since ancient lore, and modern use,
Full many a warning might produce,
Of those who follow'd, to no end,
That ignis-fatuus, a Friend!
Then bent on his more solid aim
He turn'd again to hunt—a name!
The gay coquette, with laughing eyes,
Beheld my progress with surprise,
And smiling shook the rosy chain,
In which she held her votive train.
Wealth smil'd contempt, to see my aim
Was such unprofitable game;
But would not chide me from my whim,
Lest I should interfere with him.
Thus, each maintained his own pursuit
Led to the only solid fruit,
And found in every neighbour's aim
Food for compassion, mirth, or blame!
With ardent heart I urg'd the chase,
I reach'd the goal, I won the race!
With the high prize my toils are bless'd,
And now I wear it in my breast.
Might echo to our footsteps' sound,
While social scene, and desert drear,
Alike our vagrant track might bear,
And we might roll our searching eyes
Round native, and round foreign skies,
And still the soother Friendship find
A gay chimera of the mind;
A flame, blown up by Fancy's breath,
A flower, to deck the poet's wreath,
A wandering meteor, which pursued
Would still the following step elude;
A painted charm from Circe's bower,
Which, like the bow in summer shower
Would gleam across the gloomy sky,
Then fade upon the baffled eye,
And leave it aching to deplore
Those colours which are bright no more:
But yet a whisper from within
Urg'd me this shadowy prize to win;
Each heart with life's warm current fraught
Must still pursue some favorite thought;
And never must the heaving breast
Till the last silence, hope to rest:
Nay, even in the hermit's cell,
Where dank oblivion seems to dwell,
Scattering her slumb'rous dews around,
And shedding thick her mists profound,
Nature's true spark, tho' languid, burns,
And the dim spirit world-ward turns!
Still, still we see earth's giddy race
All pushing on with eager pace,
The grave, the gay, the sage, the vain,
Some gilded trifle to obtain!
Various their aims, alike their toil;
Some seek an empire, some a smile,
Some ask for wealth, and some for fame,
And pant and labour for a name!
I smil'd to see the crowd pursue,
Yet felt the restless impulse too.
"Perchance," said I, "my anxious breast
Throbs for a bauble like the rest;
Friendship may prove an emptier name
Than even power, or wealth, or fame—
But what of that! the doom is past,
And all must run to drop at last;
And if the toy should disappear,
Elusive of my vain career,
Yet all who run beneath the sky,
Have follow'd cheats as well as I!"
Philosophy, with brow severe,
Turn'd slowly from his task austere,
And bade me think before I ran,
Nor waste on dream's life's little span;
Since ancient lore, and modern use,
Full many a warning might produce,
Of those who follow'd, to no end,
That ignis-fatuus, a Friend!
Then bent on his more solid aim
He turn'd again to hunt—a name!
The gay coquette, with laughing eyes,
Beheld my progress with surprise,
And smiling shook the rosy chain,
In which she held her votive train.
Wealth smil'd contempt, to see my aim
Was such unprofitable game;
But would not chide me from my whim,
Lest I should interfere with him.
Thus, each maintained his own pursuit
Led to the only solid fruit,
And found in every neighbour's aim
Food for compassion, mirth, or blame!
With ardent heart I urg'd the chase,
I reach'd the goal, I won the race!
With the high prize my toils are bless'd,
And now I wear it in my breast.