Charles Whitehead.

1804-1862

682   The Lamp

AS yonder lamp in my vacated room
   With arduous flame disputes the darksome night,
   And can, with its involuntary light,
But lifeless things, that near it stand, illume;
Yet all the while it doth itself consume,
   And, ere the sun begins its heavenly height
   With courier beams that meet the shepherd’s sight,
There, whence its life arose, shall be its tomb—

So wastes my light away. Perforce confined
   To common things, a limit to its sphere,
It shines on worthless trifles undesign’d
   With fainter ray each hour imprison’d here.
Alas! to know that the consuming mind
   Shall leave its lamp cold, ere the sun appear.