A LIFE SPENT IN PURSUIT OF GLORY.
FROM THE FRENCH OF LAMARTINE.
Man’s new-born life is like the crystal rill,
Nameless and lowly issuing from the rock;
While in the clear deep bed by nature scooped
As in a cradle noiseless, calm, it sleeps,
Flowers crown its bank with perfume, and serene
The blue of heaven descends upon its breast:—
But from the hill’s close arms escaped, when spread
Its waves o’er neighbouring plains—with river slime
How swell its billows, and with bloated bulk
Grow pale and putrid! From its shores recede
The wonted shade, and but the naked rock
Receives its fugitive waves. Cleaving new paths,
The graceful windings of its parent vale
It scorns to follow—but ’neath arches deep,
Rolling with haughty port, there gains a name
As sounding as its surge. Still onward rushing
With bounds impetuous; bearing in its path
The ships, the tumult, and the mire of cities!
Each stream that swells its course another change—
Till swoln with waters various and corrupt,
Troubled though great, its being vain resigning,
In the sea’s breast it pours its pride and slime!