THE " AUTHOR OF LA CON." 89 



Untaught by saint, by cynic, or by sage, 



And all the spoils of time that load their shelves, 



We do not quit, but change our joys in age 



Joys framed to stifle thought, and lead us from ourselves. 



The drug, the cord, the steel, the flood, the flame, 



Turmoil of action, tedium of rest, 

 And lust to change, though for the worst, proclaim 



How dull life's banquet is how ill at ease the guest. 



Known were the " bill of fare" before we taste, 

 Who would not spurn the banquet and the board 



Prefer th' eternal, but oblivious fast 



To life's frail-fretted thread, and death's suspended sword ? 



He that the topmost stone of Babel plann'd, 



And he that braved the crater's boiling bed 

 Did these a clearer, closer view command 



Of heaven or hell, we ask, than the blind herd they led ! 



Or he that in Valdarno did prolong 



The night, her rich star-studded page to read 



Could he point out 'midst all that brilliant throng, 



His fix'd and final home, from fleshly thraldom freed ? 



Minds that have scann'd creation's vast domain, 



And secrets solved, till then to sages seaFd, 

 Whilst nature own'd their intellectual reign 



Extinct, have nothing known or nothing have reveal'd. 



Devouring grave ! we might the less deplore 



The extinguished lights that in thy "darkness" dwell, 



Would'st thou, from that lost zodiac, ONE restore, 



That might the enigma solve, and Doubt, man's tyrant, quell. 



To live in darkness in despair to die 



Is this indeed the boon to mortals given? 

 Is there no port no rock of refuge nigh ? 



There is to those who fix their anchor hope in Heaven. 



Turn then, O, man ! and cast all else aside ; 



Direct thy wandering thoughts to things above 

 Low at the " cross" bow down in that confide, 



Till doubt be lost in faith, and bliss secured in love. 



M.M. No. 1. N 



