Extract from "Lines to an Infant"

Ah! little deemest thou, my child,
The way of life is dark and wild —
Its sunshine, but a light whose play
Serves but to dazzle and betray —
Weary and long; its end, the tomb,
Where darkness spreads her wings of gloom;
That resting-place of things which live,
The goal of all that earth can give.

It may be that the dreams of fame,
Proud Glory's plume, the warrior's name,
Shall lure thee to the field of blood,
Where, like a god, war's fiery flood
May bear thee on; while, far above,
Thy crimson banners proudly move,
Like the red clouds which skirt the sun,
When the fierce tempest-day is done!

Or lead thee to a cloister'd cell,
Where Learning's votaries lonely dwell —
The midnight lamp and brow of care,
The frozen heart that mocks despair,
Consumption's fires that burn the cheek,
The brain that throbs, but will not break,
The travail of the soul, to gain
A name, and die — alas! in vain.

Thou reckest not, sweet slumberer, there,
Of this world's crimes; of many a snare
To catch the soul; of pleasures wild,
Friends false, foes dark, and hearts beguiled;
Of Passion's ministers who sway,
With iron sceptre, all who stray;
Of broken hearts still loving on,
When all is lost, and changed, and gone!

Thy tears will flow, and thou wilt weep
As he has wept who eyes thy sleep.
But weeps no more: His heart is cold,
Warp'd, sicken'd, sear'd, with woes untold.
And be it so! the clouds which roll
Dark, heavy, o'er my troubled soul,
Bring with them lightnings, which illume,
To shroud the mind in deeper gloom!