Of human victims. From the farthest nook Of the wide world shall troop their risen souls, Where never plummet's sound was heard to part Thou first shalt summon the elected saints Rear thou aloft thy standard.. Spirit, rear Earth's proudest boasts, beneath thy silent sway, Unmoved and heedless, thou dost hear the rush To the broad gulf of ruin, and dost stamp Thy signet on them, and they rise no more. Who shall contend with Time- unvanquished Time, The conqueror of conquerors, and lord Of desolation? - Lo! the shadows fly, The hours and days, and years and centuries; The young are old, the old are in their graves. Again! 'tis hushed - Time speaks, and all is hushed; In the vast multitude now reigns alone Unruffled solitude. They all are still; All yea, the whole - the incalculable mass, Still as the ground that clasps their cold remains. Rear thou aloft thy standard. Spirit, rear When saints shall shout, and Time shall be no more. And desolate stern Desolation's lord. Lo! where he cometh! the Messiah comes! The King! the Comforter! the Christ!-- He comes To burst the bonds of Death, and overturn The power of Time. — Hark! the trumpet's blast Rings o'er the heavens! They rise, the myriads rise Even from their graves they spring, and burst the chains Of torpor,— He has ransom'd them, Forgotten generations live again, Assume the bodily shapes they owned of old, They glow, they burn; and now with one accord Yet there is peace for man. - Yea, there is peace Even in this noisy, this unsettled scene; When from the crowd, and from the city far, O'ertaken with deep thought) beneath the boughs The solemn shadows of the Heavens sail, And thinks the season yet shall come, when Time Will waft him to repose, to deep repose, Far from the unquietness of life from noise And tumult far beyond the flying clouds, Beyond the stars, and all this passing scene, CHILDHOOD.* A POEM. Ꮲ Ꭺ Ꭱ Ꭲ I. PICTURED in memory's mellowing glass, how sweet * This appears to be one of the Author's earliest productions: written when about the age of fourteen. The whitewashed cottage, where the woodbine grew, When each wing'd hour some new delight beguiles. Bless'd Childhood, hail! Thee simply will I sing, This shrubby knoll was once my favourite seat; Here did I love at evening to retreat, And muse alone, till in the vault of night, I sit me down to think of former joys; Pause on each scene, each treasured scene, once more, And once again each infant walk explore, While as each grove and lawn I recognize, My melted soul suffuses in my eyes. And oh! thou Power, whose myriad trains resort To distant scenes, and picture them to thought; Whose mirror, held unto the mourner's eye, Flings to his soul a borrowed gleam of joy ; Bless'd Memory, guide, with finger nicely true, Back to my youth my retrospective view; |