OUT springs the bubble, dazzling bright, With ever-changing hues of light, And so amid the flowery grass Our gilded years of childhood pass. Yet bears not each with traitor sway, Beneath its robe, some gem away? Some bud of hope, at morning born, Without the memory of the thorn? Some fruit that ripen'd, free from care? Where are those vanish'd treasures? where? Then knowledge, with her letter'd lore, Demands us at the nursery-door, Reproves our love of vain delights, And on the brow, "sub jugum," writes. But the sweet joys of earliest days, The buoyant spirits, wing'd for praise, Escape, -- exhale. We thought them seal'd For wintry days, their charm to yield. Where have they fled? Go, ask the sky, Where fleet the dews, when suns are high. Upborne by history's arm, we tread The crumbling soil, o'er nations dead. The buried king, the mouldering sage, The relics of a nameless age, We summon forth, with vain regret; And in that toil our heart forget: -- Till, warn'd, perchance, by wayward deads, How much that realm a regent needs, Renew, with pangs of contrite pain, The study of ourselves again. While thus we roam, the silver hair Steals o'er our temples here and there, And beauty starts, amaz'd to see The ploughshare of an enemy. -- What is that haunt, where willows wave? That yawning pit? The grave! the grave! The turf is set, the violets grow, The throngs rush on, where we lie low. Our name is lost, amid their strife, The bubble bursts, -- and this is life! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A PROPER NEW BALLAD [ENTITLED THE FAIRIES' FAREWELL] by RICHARD CORBET OUR WEAKNESS by JOHANNA AMBROSIUS THE LOVER'S VIGIL by WILLIAM ROSE BENET TELL ME by LOUISA SARAH BEVINGTON ON BOARD THE CUMBERLAND by GEORGE HENRY BOKER THE WANDERER: 1. IN ITALY: THE MAGIC LAND by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON |