Poems (Hornblower)/The World

by Jane Elizabeth Roscoe Hornblower

For works with similar titles, see The World.

THE WORLD.

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The world must have its own;
 The best, the truest heart
Must bow before its idol-throne,
 And act the trifler's part;
The world must have its own indeed,
Though the young hearts of thousands bleed.

It takes the trust from youth,
 And manhood's nobler faith;
From life its holiest truth,
 And all its hopes from death:
The world! the world! the blight is there,
And with its breath it brings despair.

Their earliest bloom is gone,
 I see them passing on,
As victims to then doom;
 They dance, and sing, and smile,
Nor do they dream the while,
Of the dark ills to come.

Death? nothing half so sweet,
 So sacred, and so calm;
But feverish cares that eat
 The soul, and find no balm;
Envy, and pride, and fashion's strife,
That take the holiest bloom from life.

Not such, not such wert thou,
 With thy young sainted brow,
Speaking of purer things;
 Thy smiles that breathed of peace,
Not from a world like this—
Such as it never brings!

In its polluted throng,
 I saw thee move along,
As of a holier sphere;
 And Heaven, which marked its own,
Called to a loftier throne,
Forbade thy lingering here.

Ah yes! I joy to know
 That thou art saved from these
Cares, doubts, and vanities,
 And even deeper woe;
The world, the world can never thrill
That young heart with one pang of ill!