ODE ON THE THIRD CENTENARY OF THE ANNUAL COMMEMORATION IN TRINITY COLLEGE. How sweep they by so fast, Those chariot-wheels of Time! On, onward, swifter than the wintry blast. Athwart a wintry clime: On, on - another hundred years Pass'd, like a dream o' the night. There is no space for mirth, no time for tears, The rivers pause not, and the mighty spheres Still track their course of everlasting light. Yet touch thy harp-strings, minstrel let the throng Sweep heedlessly along: : Pause, and with thoughtful spirits cast thine eye Across the mighty regions left behind; For spots lie there eternally enshrined, And hours that will not die. Another hundred years, From yonder sacred pile; The chime this day hath fallen on our ears Where once our fathers gather'd: they have gone Across the narrow twilight bridge, that lies Betwixt two vast eternities, Then hasten underneath The second cloud of death, That skirts the confines where our fathers are, A land that is so nigh, and seems so far. They must not pass without a tear away, We must not live without deep thoughts of them; The mists are transient as the summer day, But stars live on in Heaven's great diadem. Thrice have a hundred years pass'd by These sacred walls, deepens the echoing cry. And countless visions sweep O'er fancy's startled sleep, Of fields of glory, wreaths of fame, And victories won on stormy seas, And many a warrior's spotless name Ay, nobler deeds than these. Heroes, who fought, but for no earthly crown; And for their God and country dared to die: Of England's great free-hearted Queen; And still is heard the waves' exuberant roar Casting the Armada's wrecks in sport upon the shore. How sweep they by so fast, Those chariot-wheels of Time! The echoes of the centuries are pass'd, Like a faint vesper chime. Yet stormful was the cry, And loud the thunder as they grated by: She taught her proud heart gentler ruth: The scene is changed once more: Beneath a midnight lamp a student sits,1 And muses oft long while, or reads by fits Then turns his ardent reverent look To Nature's greater, nobler book, Where from their deep blue homes on high The stars greet meekly his meek eye, Interpreting the lines Of those mysterious signs, All dimly traced upon the awful sky. 1 Sir Isaac Newton. New visions still crowd on, and memory tells Of glorious deeds of old, And many a patriot's name, But bound by mightier spells We see them glide beneath the vaporous fold Of the great past, nor linger o'er their fame: Though oft, in evening's twilight dews, We fondly love to muse, That whilome those high sages' feet Here humbly trode this still retreat, And learn'd to bend a childlike ear To the low voice of heavenly wisdom here. How sweep they by so fast, Those chariot-wheels of Time! Leaving so brief a track of glories past, And hurrying on to crime. Have orphan'd children cried? 1 Have captive daughters pined? Have groans, ere now, been cast aside Unto the pitiless wind? 1 The Revolution of 1789. |