'TWILL BE ALL THE SAME IN A HUNDRED YEARS.
'Twill be all the same in a hundred years!
What a spell-word to conjure up smiles and tears!
O, how oft do I muse, 'mid the thoughtless and gay,
On the marvellous truth that these words convey!
And can it be so? Must the valiant and free
Have their tenure of life on this frail decree?
Are th' trophies they've rear'd and th' glories they've won
Only castles of frost-work, confronting the sun,
And must all that's as joyous and brilliant to view
As a midsummer's dream, be as perishing too?
Then have pity, ye proud ones—be gentle, ye great,
O remember how mercy beseemeth your state;
For the rust that consumeth the sword of the brave
Is eating the chain of the manacled slave,
And the conqueror's frowns and his victim's tears
Will be all the same in a hundred years! 'Twill be all the same in a hundred years!
What a spell-word to conjure up smiles and tears!
How dark are your fortunes, ye sons of the soil,
Whose heir-loom is sorrow, whose birthright is toil,
Yet envy not those who have glory and gold,
By the sweat of the poor and the blood of the bold;
For 'tis coming, howe'er they may flaunt in their pride,
The day when they'll moulder to dust by your side,
Death uniteth the children of toil and of sloth,
And the democrat reptiles carouse upon both;
For time, as he speeds on his viewless wings,
Disenamels and withers all earthly things;
And the knight's white plume, and the shepherd's crook,
And the minstrel's pipe, and the scholar's book,
And the emperor's crown, and his Cossack's spears,
Will be dust alike in a hundred years! 'Twill be all the same in a hundred years!
O most magical fountain of smiles and tears!
To think that our hopes, like the flowers of June,
Which we love so much, should be lost so soon!
Then what meaneth the chase after phantom joys?
Or the breaking of human hearts for toys?
Or the veteran's pride in his crafty schemes?
Or the passion of youth for his darling dreams?
Or the aiming at ends that we never can span?
Or the deadly aversion of man for man?
What availeth it all? O, ye sages, say,—
Or the miser's joy in his brilliant clay?
Or the lover's zeal for his matchless prize—
The enchanting maid with the starry eyes?
Or the feverish conflict of hopes and fears,
If 'tis all the same in a hundred years? Ah! 'tis not the same in a hundred years,
How clear soever the case appears;
For know ye not that beyond the grave,
Far, far beyond where the cedars wave,
On the Syrian mountains, or where the stars
Come glittering forth in their golden cars,
There bloometh a land of perennial bliss,
Where we smile to think of the tears in this?
And the pilgrim reaching that radiant shore,
Has the thought of death in his heart no more,
But layeth his staff and sandals down
For the victor's palm and the monarch's crown,
And the mother meets in that tranquil sphere,
The delightful child she had wept for here;
And the warrior's sword that protects the right,
Is bejewelled with stars of undying light;
And we quaff of the same immortal cup,
While the orphan smiles, and the slave looks up!
So be glad, my heart, and forget thy tears,
For 'tis not the same in a hundred years!