Poems (Campbell)/The Death of Leander

THE DEATH OF LEANDER.

Leander in the bloom of youth
Was deck'd with ev'ry grace,
For honour, worth, and spotless truth,
Were beaming in his face.

But ye who all the soul would know,
And search its inmost part—
Say, did those matchless virtues glow
As brightly in his heart?

'Mid flow'ry lawns, and gardens trim,
His stately mansion stood;
Where many a fountain's sparkling brim
Was fring'd with waving wood.

And all that charms the ear and eye,
From earth, or sea, or air—
That art could frame, or wealth supply,
To please the sense—was there.

His hours in one continued round
Of mirth and pleasure flew;
And ev'ry want and wish was crown'd—
If want or wish he knew.

No wand'ring beggar sought in vain.
His hospitable door,
And injur'd virtue told its pain,
To feel that pain no more.

Still to his slightest promise true;
A friend sincere and kind;
A lover firm, and tender too,
And just to all mankind—

Accomplish'd, learned, great and wise,—
Was not Leander bless'd?
Oh! yes, he was—to mortal eyes—
But pause, and hear the rest.

Leander, though so highly rais'd
Above the sons of earth,
Nor bow'd, nor worshipp'd, thank'd, nor prais'd,
From whence those gifts had birth.

Oh! say, can such a creature be,
Nor gratitude hath warm'd?
A soul from vice so seeming free,
And yet so much deform'd!

Ah, me! I fear that many such
The stage of life have trod;
Who seem to worship virtue much,
But worship not their God.

'Tis heav'n's own ray that falls in vain
Around their stubborn soul—
So cheerless stand amid the main,
The ice-rocks of the pole!

So glitter in the sunny light
With many a frozen wreath—
The surface all is dazzling bright,
But all is cold beneath!

At length, while yet his pulse was high,
And pleasure danc'd around,
Disease, with poison'd dart, came by,
And gave the fatal wound.

Alas! how chang'd the brilliant scene
That late Leander view'd!
Forlorn he lies in racking pain,
With anguish-drops bedew'd.

Ah? tell me, what avails it now,
That he was great and wise?—
Can greatness smooth that ruffled brow,
Or check those lab'ring sighs?

Can all the aid that man may give,
The failing pulse restore;
Or bid the wretched sinner live
For one short moment more!

He would attempt—but all in vain—
To lift his hopes on high!
Repentance weeps in fruitless pain,
And judgment threatens nigh.

Now conscience wakes the ling'ring smart,
And bids delusion cease;
Remorse and terror rend his heart,
And agonize his peace.

The world, and all he trusted there,
Is fading from his sight;
And closing fast in dread despair,
His eyes are dim with night.

The stubborn knees, that would not bow
In pray'r before his God,
Are stiff, and cold as marble now,
Beneath the silent sod.

Ah! what avails it, that his form
Was deck'd with ev'ry grace—
That truth, and love, and friendship warm,
Glow'd in his manly face?

Alas! they glow'd not in his soul;—
But, as a fleeting shade,
Across his darken'd path they stole,
And no impression made.

Oh! come, ye young and thoughtless! come
View where Leander lies—
Pause o'er the wretched sinner's doom,
And pausing, yet be wise!