Saying, We are twins in death, proud Sun, Thy face is cold, thy race is run, 'Tis Mercy bids thee go. For thou ten thousand thousand years Hast seen the tide of human tears, That shall no longer flow. What though beneath thee man put forth His pomp, his pride, his skill; And arts that made fire, flood, and earth, The vassals of his will ;— Yet mourn I not thy parted sway, Thou dim discrowned king of day: For all those trophied arts And triumphs that beneath thee sprang, Heal'd not a passion or a pang Entail'd on human hearts. Go, let oblivion's curtain fall.. Upon the stage of men, Nor with thy rising beams recall Life's tragedy again. Its piteous pageants bring not back, Nor waken flesh, upon the rack Of pain anew to writhe; Stretch'd in disease's shapes abhorr'd, Or mown in battle by the sword, Like grass beneath the scythe. Ev'n I am weary in yon skies Test of all sumless agonies, Behold not me expire. My lips that speak thy dirge of death Their rounded gasp and girgling breath To see thou shalt not boast. The eclipse of Nature spreads my pall,— The majesty of Darkness shall Receive my parting ghost! This spirit shall return to Him Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim No! it shall live again, and shine In bliss unknown to beams of thine, By Him recall'd to breath, Who captive led captivity, Who robb'd the grave of Victory,— And took the sting from Death! ཟླ་ Go, Sun, while Mercy holds me up On Nature's awful waste To drink this last and bitter cup Of grief that man shall taste Go, tell the night that hides thy face, Thou saw'st the last of Adam's race, On Earth's sepulchral clod, The dark'ning universe defy Or shake his trust in God! |