O’er the level plains, where mountains greet me as I go,
O’er the desert waste where fountains at my bidding flow,
On the boundless beam by day, on the cloud by night,
I am rushing hence away! Who will chain my flight?
War his weary watch was keeping; – I have crush’d his spear:
Grief within her bower was weeping; – I have dried her tear:
Pleasure caught a minute’s hold; – then I hurried by,
Leaving all her banquet cold, and her goblet dry.
Power had won a throne of glory; – where is now his fame?
Genius said, – ‘I live in story’; – who hath heard his name?
Love, beneath a myrtle bough, whisper’d, – ‘Why so fast?’
And the roses on his brow wither’d as I past.
I have heard the heifer lowing o’er the wild wave’s bed;
I have seen the billow flowing where the cattle fed;
Where began my wanderings? – Memory will not say!
Where will rest my weary wings? – Science turns away!
Winthrop Mackworth Praed