Analysis of Declining Days
Henry Francis Lyte 1793 (Ednam) – 1847 (Nice)
Why do I sigh to find
Life's evening shadows gathering round my way?
The keen eye dimming, and the buoyant mind
Unhinging day by day?
Is it the natural dread
Of that stern lot, which all who live must see?
The worm, the clay, the dark and narrow bed, --
Have these such awe for me?
Can I not summon pride
To fold, my decent mantle round my breast;
And lay me down at Nature's eventide,
Calm to my dreamless rest?
As nears my soul the verge
Of this dim continent of woe and crime,
Shrinks she to hear Eternity's long surge
Break o'er the shores of time?
Asks she, how shall she fare
When conscience stands before the judge's throne,
And gives her record in, and all shall there
Know, as they all are known?
A solemn scene and time --
And well may Nature quail to feel them near --
But grace in feeble breasts can work sublime,
And faith overmaster fear!
Hark I from that throne comes down
A voice which strength to sinking souls can give,
That voice all judgment's thunders cannot drown;
'Believe,' it cries, 'and live.'
Weak-sinful, as I am,
That still small voice forbids me to despond
Faith clings for refuge to thebleeding Lamb,
Nor dreads the gloom beyond. --
'Tis not, then, earth's delights
From which my spirit feels so loath to part;
Nor the dim future's solemn sounds or sights,
That press so on my heart.
No I 'tis the thought that I --
My lamp so low, my sun so nearly set,
Have lived so useless, so unmissed should lie
'Tis this, I now regret. --
I would not be the wave,
That swells and ripples up to yonder shore
That drives impulsive on, the wild wind's slave,
And breaks, and is no more! --
I would not be the breeze,
That murmers by me in its viewless play,
Bends the light grass, and flutters in the trees,
And sighs and flits away! --
No I not like wave or wind
Be my career across the earthly scene
To come and go, and leave no trace behind,
To say that I have been.
I want not vulgar fame --
I seek not to survive in brass or stone
Hearts may not kindle when they hear my name,
Nor tears my value own. --
But might I leave behind
Some blessing for my fellows, some fair trust
To guide, to cheer, to elevate my kind
When I am in the dust.
Within my narrow bed,
Might I not wholly mute or useless be;
But hope that they, who trampled o'er my head,
Drew still some good from me!
Might my poor lyre but give
Some simple strain, some spirit-moving lay;
Some sparklet of the soul, that still might live
When I have passed to clay! --
Might verse of mine inspire
One virtuous aim, one high resolve impart;
Light in one drooping soul a hallowed fire,
Or bind one broken heart. --
Death would be sweeter then,
More calm my slumber 'neath the silent sod;
Might I thus live to bless my fellow-men,
Or glorify my God.
Why do we ever lose,
As judgment ripens, our diviner powers
Why do we only learn our gifts to use,
When they no more are ours?
O Thou whose touch can lend
Life to the dead, Thy quick'ning grace supply,
And grant me, swanlike, my last breath to spend
In song that may not die!
Scheme | ABAB CDCD XEAE FGFG HIHI GJGJ KLKM NANX OPOP QRQR STST UBUB AXAX VIVI AWAW CDCD LBMB XPXP XYXY XZXZ 1 Q1 Q |
---|---|
Poetic Form | Quatrain (90%) |
Metre | 111111 1101100111 0111000101 1111 1101001 1111111111 0101010101 111111 111101 1111010111 01111101 11111 111101 1111001101 1111111 1100111 111111 1101010101 0100100111 111111 010101 0111011111 1101011101 0111 1111111 0111110111 111110101 011101 110111 111101111 11110111 110101 111101 1111011111 1011010111 111111 1110111 1111111101 111101111 111101 111101 1101011101 1101010111 010111 111101 11110111 1011010001 010101 1111111 1101010101 1101011101 111111 111101 1111010111 1111011111 111101 111101 1101110111 111111011 111001 011101 1111011101 11111101011 111111 111111 1101110101 111011111 111111 111101 11001110101 10110101010 111101 111101 1111010101 1111111101 11011 111101 110110110 11110110111 1111110 111111 1101111101 011111111 011111 |
Closest metre | Iambic tetrameter |
Characters | 2,996 |
Words | 585 |
Sentences | 24 |
Stanzas | 21 |
Stanza Lengths | 4, 4, 4, 4, 4, 4, 4, 4, 4, 4, 4, 4, 4, 4, 4, 4, 4, 4, 4, 4, 4 |
Lines Amount | 84 |
Letters per line (avg) | 27 |
Words per line (avg) | 7 |
Letters per stanza (avg) | 109 |
Words per stanza (avg) | 28 |
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Submitted on May 13, 2011
Modified on March 05, 2023
- 2:58 min read
- 43 Views
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"Declining Days" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 11 May 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem-analysis/17363/declining-days>.
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