40 HENRY KIRKE WHITE S POEMS. 



But the lost traveller might as soon rely 

 On the evasive spirit of the marsh, 

 Whose lantern beams, and vanishes, and flit?, 

 O'er bog, and rock, and pit, and hollow way, 

 As we on its appearances. 



On earth 

 There is not certainty, nor stable hope. 

 As well the weary mariner, whose bark 

 Is toss'd beyond Cimmerian Bosphorus, 

 Where storm and darkness hold their drear domain, 

 And sunbeams never penetrate, might trust 

 To expectation of serener skies, 

 And linger in the very jaws of death. 

 Because some peevish cloud were opening, 

 Or the loud storm had bated in its rage ; 

 As we look forward in this vale of tears 

 To permanent delight — from some slight glimpse 

 Of shadowy, unsubstantial happiness. 

 The good man's hope is laid far, far beyond 

 The sway of tempests, or the furious sweep 

 Of mortal desolation. — He beholds. 

 Unapprehensive, the gigantic stride 

 Of rampant ruin, or the unstable waves 

 Of dark vicissitude. — Even in death, 

 In that dread hour, when, with a giant pang, 

 Tearing the tender tibres of the heart. 

 The immortal spirit struggles to be free, 

 Then, even then, that hope forsakes him not, 

 For it exists beyond the narrow verge 

 Of the cold sepulchre. — The petty joys 

 Of fleeting life indignantly it spurn'd, 

 And rested on the bosom of its God. 

 This is man's only reasonable hope : 

 And 'tis a hope which, cherish'd in the breast, 

 Shall not be disappointed. — Even He, 

 The Holy One — Almighty — who elanced ! 

 The rolling world along its airy way — 

 Even he will deign to smile upon the good, 

 And welcome him to these celestial seats, I 

 Where joy and gladness hold th'eir changeless reign. j 

 ^i 



