On Seeing a Skull on Cowper Green

One morn I wandered forth 'neath spirits high —
A mood that morning's piercing breath instils;
And like my shade, my mind in ecstacy
Stretched as a giant o'er the pasture-hills.
I mused on reasoning man's exalted sway
O'er the brute world — pride made my feelings brave;
Creation's lord he seemed to me that day;
I felt as if all nature was his slave.

But Time's glass soon did mock my visioned might:
I saw, and shrank an insect at the sight.
For as I wandered by a quarry's side,
Where an old hoary weather-beaten swain
Was delving sand — in life's rude troubles tried —
An humble pittance as he strove to gain,
He stopt his toil, and with a feeble hand
Pointed to where a human skull lay bare,
Commingled with the refuse of the land,
Fallen from life and pride to moulder there.

I looked upon the relic with deep awe,
While Silence seemed to question what I saw.
What wert thou upon earth? perhaps a King,
For such the relics of earth's best renown.

Thou pompous shadow! thou proud, trifling thing!
Bare is the brow that triumphed 'neath a crown.
By rank forsaken, stript of pride's attire,
Death's sad reality fate only claims;
All else like shadows bidden to expire.
Time keeps the wreck, to mock at earthly fames;
To show vain Glory, in its golden birth,
Of what poor value it is held by Death.
Wert thou a Tyrant, that disdained, though clay,
The laws of God and man, and with vain power,
For earth's vain glories threw the heavens away?
How art thou fallen at this lonely hour!

Thy vengeance, that did like the thunder sear,
Ordaining hosts of murders with a breath,
Hath vanished; and the slave forgets his fear
Beneath the banner of that tyrant, Death.

Even the little ant now, undismayed,
Creeps o'er thy skull, and doth not feel afraid.
A Warrior thou? who sped in victory's ways,
As over-bearing as a mighty wind?

Ah, little thought thy pride, that Victory's praise
So soon would leave her hero's fame behind.
By war and all its havoc undeterred,
Thy Courage, withering in its mad career,
Bowed before Death, tame as a broken sword;
And ah! how silent doth it harbour here!

Its fame all sunk to nothingness away,
As showers by night wash out the steps of day.
Wert thou a Lover? — ah! what else so warm
As lovers' thoughts, that lead the heart to bliss!

How sad the change, o'ertaken In Death's storm,
Cold, wrecked, and stranded in a place like this!
Love, that will nestle 'neath the eagle's wing,
And find a dwelling in the lion's den,
Hath long forsaken thee, thou lonely thing
Of mystery, and knows thee not again.

Warm hopes, gay thoughts, rapt joys, and fond desires,
Have lost their home; Death hath put out their fires.
Wert thou a Poet, who in fancy's dream
Saw Immortality throw by her veil,
And all thy labours in Fame's temple gleam
In the proud glory of an after-tale?
If so, how cheated thy ambition died;
How vain the hopes the muse's visions gave!
Death with Eternity scarce took one stride,
Ere thou wert left forgotten in the grave; —
Chilled all thy powers, with thoughts o'erflowing full,
And nought left extant but this empty skull.
Wert thou of poor descent, and like to me,
A toiling worm, earning life's daily bread? —
If so, Death made thee rich, as well as free,
And left thee equal with the noblest dead.
Emperors and kings, no more by flattery fed,
Poor as thou art, their condescension spares
Even to thee a portion of their bed,
And thine's as soft a pillow now as theirs!
O who could grudge the Mighty's guest to be,
Where Kings grow kind, and share their pomp with thee!
In vain I question: — nought will answer me
Of what thou wert; yet know I that thou art
A faithful portrait of what Life shall be:
Thus much thy mystic vision doth impart.
King, Tyrant, Warrior, Lover, Bard, and all, f
Shall into nothing every name resign,
And Fame's proud scroll, at last, shall be the pall
To hide their history, as Oblivion thine;
While Virtue's deeds shall longest live, and be
A wreath to girdle vast Eternity!