The Broken Vase

So, here thou art in ruins, brilliant Vase,Beneath my footsteps. 'Tis a pity, sure,That aught so beautiful, should find its fate,From careless fingers.Fain would I divineThy history. Who shap'd thy graceful form,And touch'd thy pure, transparent brow with tints

Of varied hue, and gave the enamel'd robe,Deep-wrought with gold?Thou wert a costly gift.Perchance, a present to some fair young bride,Who 'mid her wedding-treasures nicely pack'dThee in soft cotton that the jarring wheelO'er the rough road careering, might not marThy symmetry. Within her new abode,She proudly plac'd thee, rich with breathing flowers,And as the magic shell from ocean borneDoth hoard the murmur of its coral-caves,So thou didst tell her twilight reverie, talesOf her far home, and seem to breathe the tonesOf her young, sporting sisters.'Tis in vain!No art may join these fragments, or cementTheir countless chasms.And yet there's many a wreckOf costlier things, for which the wealth of EarthMay yield no reparation.He, who hangsHis all of happiness on beauty's smile,And 'mid that dear illusion, treads on thorns,And feels no wound, or climbs the rocky steepUnconscious of fatigue, hath oft-times mark'dA dying dolphin's brightness at his feet,And found it but the bubble of his hope,Disparting like the rainbow.They who runAmbition's race, and on their compeers treadWith fever'd eagerness to grasp the goal,

Oft see the envied prize, like waxen toyMelt in the passion-struggle.He, who toilsTill lonely midnight, o'er the waning lamp,Twining the cobweb of poetic thought,Or forging links from Learning's molten gold,Till his brain dazzles, and his eye turns dim,Then spreads his gatherings with a proud delightTo the cold bosom'd public, oft perceivesEach to his "farm and merchandise," returnRegardless of his wisdom, or perchanceDoth hear the hammer of harsh criticism,Grinding his ore to powder, finer farThan the light sand of Congo's yellow stream.—Yea, 'mid earth's passing pilgrims, many a oneOf its new-gain'd possessions, fondly proud,Doth like the Patriarch, find his seven years' toilPaid with a poor deceit.Crush'd Vase, farewell.I thank thee for thy lesson. Thou hast warn'dThat the heart's treasures be not rashly risk'dIn earthen vessels, but in caskets stor'd,Above the wrecking ministry of Time.