Mutability - A Fragment

Warm on the hills the sunlight gleams, 
     For Spring with all her power hath come 
Down riding on her swol'en streams, 
     To drive stern Winter to his home.
And mid the forests tall and hoar
     Where late his icy reign hath been,
The merry birds begin to pour 
     The music of their songs again;
While the cold monarch struggles still 
     To claim, upon the northern brow 
Of every forest-covered hill,
     Some place of refuge even now.
But pale and paler sinks his train
Before the armies of the Rain, 
Or driven backward on and on 
By the red fire-shafts of the Sun.

Earth and its scenes are changing ever 
     And yet they seem for aye the same;
Time pauses on its swift course never, 
But onward sweeps its way, to sever 
     The bonds of kindred, and to claim 
Submission from the cot and throne;
And all its conquering power must own.

The beggar by the palace gate,
Scorned by the proud the rich and great.
To-morrow may in silk bedight
     Sit king above a conquered realm, 
And sway the sceptre of his might, 
     Empires and thrones to overwhelm:
While they, the mighty and the great, 
Who now despise his humble state, 
Shall grovel in the dust, and lick 
The foot that tramples on their neck.

The Bard to-day who struck his lyre 
To themes which set the soul on fire, 
     May hang his harp upon the willow, 
And ere the trembling notes expire
Which thrilled along the sonorous wire, 
     Be brought to press Death's thorny pillow;
While his sad harp gives out no tone 
Save to the mourning breeze alone:
Yet upward may his spirit fly
     Made free from shackles of the earth,
To strike a golden Harp on high
     With spirits of celestial bird

O there is beauty then in Death
     When from the cold and heartless world,
The child of Faith he summoneth,
To join the holy choirs above
In songs of praise, and joy and love, 
Beneath the spotless banner of 
The Prince of Peace unfurled.

But, oh! what ray can e'er illume 
The dismal shadows of the tomb, 
For him who in the bloom of health 
Heaps high his stores of hoarded wealth, 
With burnished halls upreared upon 
Their hundred hill, to mock the sun, 
And only joying in the things 
That Earth to please her votary brings,
If summoned ere his fortune's day 
Hath rolled its gilded hours away, 
To pass the dark and fearful bourne 
From whence no traveler can return;
One stone his greatness to relate.
Two yards of earth his whole estate.
What then avails the glittering hoard
Which wealth around his path hath poured?
How little in that awful day
Will its, now sweet, rememberance [sic] weigh
     Against the one consuming thought 
     Of life and vigor spent for naught, 
That on his soul like fire shall prey.