Time: An Elegy. Written Near The Ruins Of Elgin Cathedral Poem by Robert Alves

PART I.
'Twas the sober hour of closing day,
When night fast-falling wraps the world in shade,
Musing I bent my solitary way,
For yon pale mansions of the silent dead.

Hard by yon ancient pile, with ivy crown'd,
(Memorial sad of Time's resistless sway,)
Here towers to heaven, there cumbers all the ground,
With vast unwieldy heaps of old decay.

To solemn thought invites the solemn scene,
The earth wide-hush'd, and heaven's refulgent fires;
And Cynthia, riding in her car serene,
Affections gentle as herself inspires.

When thus the muse: 'Be scenes like these thy theme,
Man's life, how vain, his joys, his labours all!'—
I heard, and felt the soft inspiring flame,
And wept to see the mould'ring columns fall.

—Such is the fate of all the works of pride,
Rear'd to adorn our life, or name to save;
They shine their hour, then whelming seek the tide,
Buried for ever in Oblivion's wave.

Thus Salem's Fane of gold is now no more,
That once was Architecture's mightiest boast:
See old Palmyra frown in grandeur hoar,
Each hideous thundering ruin roll'd in dust.

Thus Painting — Sculpture — weep their wonders gone,
Where labour'd Art with easy Nature strove:
The glowing picture, or the living stone;
A Zeux's Helen, or a Phidian Jove.

Hence too the sadly-pensive Muses mourn
Of poets sweet the ill-rewarded toil;
Down, down to endless night those labours borne,
That else had reign'd in day's eternal smile.

Yet to console the loss there still remain
Works blest of Genius, works of noblest lay;
Homer's bold fire, and Virgil's lofty strain,
Tibullus' weeping muse, and Horace gay.

—Nor Arts alone: see Nature's charms decay,
The joyless prospect with'ring ev'n the soul;
Though flam'd with ruddy light this op'ning day,
Lo night's dim shades prevail, and hide the pole.

At Time's command retires the beauteous Spring,
Her dimpling cheek with orient blushes spread:
High o'er the dawn no more the wild larks sing,
Nor song of cuckow cheers the evening shade.

Summer comes on, in lucid vesture bright,
With flow'rets crown'd; with flowers the ground she stows;
Awhile she holds her reign, till length'ning night
Mellows the year, and deep the fruitage glows.

Then Autumn pours her plenty-teeming horn;
But soon a tear bedews her gentle eye:
For lo a cloud o'erspreads the face of morn,
And sounds arise, and gain upon the sky.

'Tis Winter calls his storms the skies along,
Th' unruly storms obey his dread control,
Wind, rain, and snow, a black and blustering throng,
Rush all abroad, and thunder from the pole.

As fierce they scour along the flow'ry mead,
Shrinks Nature's face before the brushing sweep;
Till bleak and bare he sits in tarnish'd weed,
And all her sympathetic votaries weep.

But why bemoan Creation's with'ring bloom,
When Man, Creation's pride, calls forth my tears;
From youth to age gay rip'ning for the tomb,
A prey to ruthless Time, and wasting years?

In youth he buds like flow'rets in their prime,
And moves triumphant like the vigorous day;
No wintry blast deforms the smiling clime,
But health and pleasures bland around him play.

But O ye wise-instructed sages, tell
When age invades, shall man his prime renew;
With recent blood, and bones, and fibres swell,
And shine with sparkling eyes and rosy hue!

Ah! no. The flow'rs that strew the winter plain,
Though shrunk their leaves, and wither'd all their dyes;
Warm'd by the breath of Spring drink life again,
And taste the balmy bounties of the skies.

Cynthia again her dying lamp resumes,
And Phoebus sets to rise with fairer day;
Again Jove's bird repairs his ruffled plumes,
And cleaves with swifter speed th' etherial way.

But ah! Man's youth once o'er, is ever o'er,
And with the season all its transports fly;
Like birds of passage, seek a warmer shore,
And bask and flutter in a brighter sky.

The smiles and loves once fled, are ever fled,
And fled each blithesome hour that first had shone,
When jocund fancy, like some buxom maid,
Before them danc'd, and led them sporting on.

These are Time's triumphs; while his black compeer,
Death, writhes his ghastly visage to a smile;
And, grimly-pleas'd, surveys the conquer'd year,
Exulting in the partner of his toil.


PART II.
To mark th' unwearied flight of rolling years:
The vanities of life; the wastes of time;
To point Man's happiest hopes; to alarm his fears;
The Muse again awakes the moral rhyme.

She marks those states alternate rise and fall,
That once o'er all th' imperial scepter bore:
She marks those heroes drop that shook the ball,
Whom Fame, and flaming Victory, slew before.

What cannot Time destroy? Those dazzling thrones
Of Syria, Persia, or of Egypt old,
Where are they now? They rest with royal bones,
In the same moulder'd dust with heroes roll'd.

Where now is Greece? Whose sons unrivall'd trode
In arts or arms, the boast of human-kind:
Here reign'd the Muses, and their laurell'd god;
Here Truth ennobled whom each Grace refin'd.

Where now is Rome? Whose conqu'ring eagle flew,
Like the bold bird of Jove, with lightning arm'd;
From pole to pole the heart-struck panic grew;
Shook trembling kingdoms, and the world alarm'd.

Yet awful Wisdom led each conquest on,
Valour untam'd, and persevering toil;
Perhaps such deeds, where heavenly Virtue shone,
Assign'd the guilty nations for her spoil.

But now, alas! (her warlike honour's lost)
Pensive she sits 'midst thousand ruins drear;
And o'er her worthless sons, and desert coast,
She pours the sad, but unavailing tear.

No more I see her range th' ensanguin'd field,
While lightning flashes from her awful eye;
She quits the glittering spear, and sounding shield,
And lays the crested helm for ever by.

Like some decaying storm, or dying blast,
Which faint we hear, or only seem to hear,
The thund'ring wars of old, though long o'erpast,
Still seem to murmur on Reflection's ear.

—But now behoves to change the sorrowing scene,
From heroes, kingdoms, empires, worlds o'erthrown:
Who can such sights behold, serene!
I melt for others, — others more our own.

Lo where Philander's recent ashes sleep,
The Loves and Graces in sad concert mourn!
Behold the friend, the parent, sister weep!
And bathe with many a tear, th' untimely urn.

But not their tears, nor all the wiles of art,
Can ope the iron chambers of the tomb:
Not Virtue's self can move Death's flinty heart,
Nor Youth, nor Age, nor Beauty's angel-bloom.

Behold what crowding graves! what emblems round!
What living lectures breathe from every stone!
No airy boast of grandeur marks the ground;
These humble teachers talk of Death alone.

'Come ye (they cry) in Fortune's trappings dreat,
Ye sick for power, ye sticklers for a name;
Behold where you must take your endless rest,
A bed of earth is all that ye can claim.'

Perhaps some scutcheon, or some stately bust,
Some sculptur'd urn with marble strong unstay'd,
May crown your grave, — yet these shall fall to dust,
And crumbling mingle with the bones they shade.

Deep in yon awful tomb, with roof so high,
Where light just glimmers on the dark'ning floor,
The great, the noble, and the puissant lie;
But are they now ought greater than the poor?

Say, does not worth preserve the good man's fame?
Even in the dust, (his sanctified repose!)
And round his grave, though poor in life his name,
The violet blooms, the wall-flower sweeter blows.

Behold those graves! the young, the vain, the gay!
How silent all! their sport now put to flight!
No voice of mirth is heard! no cheerful play
Awakes the slumber of eternal night.

Beneath that moss-grown stone now mouldering lie
Those heavenly charms that bade the world adore;
The faultless shape, soft air, and sparkling eye,
Were Celia's once — but Celia's now no more.

Yet thus shall fade the fairest charms below,
Of art or nature, body or of soul
Like northern lights, or like the painted bow,
So swift of human life the meteors roll.

But see! 'tis past the silent noon of night,
And Cynthia falls from her meridian tour;
While, as she slow withdraws her paler light,
The shadows lengthen of yon cypress-bower.

Though time, O Muse! with Cynthia to retire,
O'er graves and hoary piles no more to roam!
Yet, yet a while, the weeping verse inspire,
And weave the dark-green ivy round my tomb.


PART III.
Shall then these eyes no more the sun behold?
Must I too sleep in Death's all-darksome shade?
'His mortal race is run,' the tale is told,
'Low lies his name in yonder dusty bed.'

So when the declin'd years their course have run,
And mortals trod the path they trod before;
My name or birth-place shall no more be known,
Eras'd like figures on the sandy shore.

Yet why complain, 'Our short-spun lives expire;'
When Nature fades, and stars their darkness mourn;
Since all alike partake th' eternal fire,
And all alike must languish in their turn?

The earth hath bloom'd; the clouds dropt fatness down;
The self-same sun hath shone with annual ray;
And rivers seen, eternal as they run,
One generation rise, and one decay.

Yet all must fade, and some grow dim with years,
Till brighter suns, and purer ether shine;
Till, at the last loud trump, that morn appears,
When heaven's eternal day, O Man! is thine!

Meanwhile full seventy years are given, to taste
Life's pleasing joys, or graver duties bear;
Then sated, tired, — to take our needful rest,
And yield to others all terrestrial care.

Let others build, or plant, or plough the deep,
More wealth atchieve, or better strike the lyre;
Oft like ourselves at disappointments weep,
And weary like ourselves at last expire.

—Yet why not mourn awhile our transports gone,
And grieve our youthful hearts must beat no more;
No more to love an easy conquest won,
When beauty charm'd, and led each golden hour?

Then call to view the banquet or the ball,
Where sparkling bowls, and cheerful talk flew round;
Where songs of youth our vanish'd years recal,
And dance and music to the roofs resound.

Alas, like magic, life's gay scenes decoy;
Of banquets rich we dream, and pleasures fair;
Of gorgeous halls, and airs of heavenly joy;
Then wake to disappointment and despair!

Even while the visionary glories shine,
And Fancy smiles to find them in her eye,
Lo Death, the dread magician, gives the sign,
And all the airy charms for ever fly.

—Must I too call the scenes no longer mine,
Where warbling fountains play, and rivers roll;
The shady woods, the breezy lawns resign,
And the sweet rural scents that cheer my soul?

Must I no longer mark at early morn,
The flocks wide bleating o'er the clov'ry vale;
Nor hear at even the shepherd's drowsy horn,
When sleep and silence hush both hill and dale?

Must I no longer seek the noon-tide shade,
Where silver-footed Naiads pace along;
Or on their banks, 'midst balmy flow'rets laid,
Sleep to the murmurs of their chiming song?

Must I no more on midnight-splendors gaze,
Nor woo fair Cynthia's sweetly-pensive beam;
Must, O ye stars! your thousand golden rays,
And heaven's blue concave vanish as a dream?

—Hail then, Religion, with thy comforts hail!
Hail, holy Faith, that feeds on joys to come,
Whose eagle-eyes can pierce th' involving vail
That hides in darkness all beyond the tomb!

Come, pleasures lasting as th' eternal soul,
As heaven itself sublime, and sweet as love!
Come, radiant climes! where streams Elysian roll,
O melting move my heart, and more than move!

Yes, — in some secure scenes beyond the skies,
If pious here, our souls shall fairer shine;
Through all the heights sublime of Virtue rise,
And flourish still, and drink the life divine.

There Love and Truth speak forth the Sire supreme,
Eternal source of life, and boundless joy!
'Here mortals hang your hopes, adore the name;'—
Go court the bliss which nothing can destroy.

PART IV.
How frail our bliss on life's uncertain coast!
How vain our trust in all beneath the pole!
From care to care with fruitless anguish tost,
Till to th' eternal boundless sea we roll.

What more than madness thus to sport with fate,
To hang our fortunes o'er the rocky steep,
When the least breath of air may end their date,
And whelm for ever in the roaring deep!

But hark! what sound invades my startl'd ear,
Slow — pealing from yon turret's stately height!
—Again it tolls! resounds death's caverns drear,
And distant echoes fill the silent night.

Methinks to reason's sober ear it calls,
'Be wise, and snatch the swift departing hour!'
It bids gay Florio quit the midnight-balls,
And court fair wisdom in her sacred bower.

It bids Avarus quit his earthly schemes,
His houses, lands, and all his world of gain:
'Awake, ambition, from thy golden dreams,
Nor treasure to thyself a world of pain.'

It warns us now; ere long shall warn no more,
Till the last knell proclaim our endless doom:
Then ev'ry trial, ev'ry hope is o'er
We take our long, long mansion in the tomb.

Methinks I hear the awful, silent dead
Echo assent through all their murmuring cells;
Them darkness covers with eternal shade,
While smiling hope in mortal mansions dwells.

—See the sun labour in his course for man,
The air breath balm, the earth her bounty pour!
Year wait on year, to see him change his plan,
But finds him idling on a barren shore.

Vain man! already half thy years are past:
Life's little morning gone, the noon comes on;
It comes; the evening hastens on us fast,
But oh how little of thy work is done!

—Say, why did heaven such active powers bestow,
Progressive still, and boundless in their aim?
Was it to grasp the paltry things below,
And waste in vain their never-dying flame?

Was it to barter peace for golden ore;
To toil; and count the rich the only great?
Or still more wretched, sigh for pomp and power,
And all the weary pageantry of state?

Was it to pass in thoughtless joy the morn,
To dress, to bow, to speak and smile with art?
Then flaunt abroad, through whirling pleasures borne,
Nor steal one secret hour to mend the heart?

Go, then, let all thy lease of life expire
In earth-born cares, and life's great end, forget;
Disclaim the skies; renounce thy heavenly fire;
Leave nought undone to aggravate thy fate.

To live in heaven, thy eager will confin'd,
(Virtue's high praise,) let ne'er thy soul annoy;
But never hope the double transport thine,
Of present bliss, or heav'n's eternal joy.

How sweet the joys that to the good belong!
(While vice to mis'ry leads, remorse, and pain
Collected, cool — far from the giddy throng,
Those walk with virtue, and ensure their gain.

The god-like bliss in making others blest
They boast to feel, and with the wretched weep:
Each day some deed of pity moves their breast,
As sighing zephyrs stir the yielding deep.

Hail to the tears, than Hybla-drops more sweet,
Than gold more precious to the heart of woe!
Hail to the joys, that wisdom may repeat,
And virtue find still sweeter as they flow!

Oft too at rising morn, or setting day,
They woo from heav'n's devotion's holy fire:
Around them angels wait in bright array,
Smooth all their steps, and all their thoughts inspire.

Let fortune rage, yet mid the storm, serene
They smile, their stedfast anchor fix'd on high;
They see th' Eternal rule life's troublous scene,
And trust their safety to a Father's eye.

Let death approach, still leaning on their God,
I see them firm, that last sad combat brave;
See death, their friend, to life direct the road,
And dipt in balm his shafts, but wound — to save.

But see nights dreary shadows deeper fall;
Black, and more black, each object frowns around;
The wanning moon has sunk beneath the ball,
And hov'ring darkness broods o'er all the ground.

Lo Philomel hath ceas'd her midnight-song,
A tender tale like mine, a tale of woes;
Like mine renew'd her strain, and warbl'd long;
—Now sleep hath hush'd the mourner to repose.

Sleep on, sweet bird! I go to court the same:
How sweet the hour to meditation giv'n!
Now sleep's soft dews weigh down my weary frame;
Then peace, my woes! and leave the rest to heav'n.