DEATH. FATE! fortune! chance! whose blindness, Hostility or kindness, Play such strange freaks with human destinies, Contrasting poor and wealthy, The life-diseased and healthy, The bless'd, the curs'd, the witless, and the wise, Ye have a master-one Who mars what ye have done, Levelling all that move beneath the sun, Death! Take courage ye that languish Beneath the withering anguish Of open wrong, or tyrannous deceit, There comes a swift redresser, To punish your oppressor, And lay him prostrate-helpless at your feet. O champion strong! Righter of wrong, Justice-equality to thee belong, Death! Where conquest crowns his quarrel, And the victor, wreath'd with laurel, While trembling nations bow beneath his rod, On his guarded throne reposes, In living apotheosis, The Lord's anointed, and earth's demigod, 66 What form of fear Croaks in his ear, The victor's car is but a funeral bier." Death! Who-spite of guards and yeomen, Steel phalanx and cross-bowmen, Leaps at a bound the shudd'ring castle's moat, The tyrant's crown down dashes, His brandish'd sceptre smashes, With rattling fingers grasps him by the throat, His breath out-wrings, And his corpse down flings To the dark pit where grave-worms feed on kings?—— Death! When the murderer 's undetected, When the robber 's unsuspected, And night has veil'd his crime from every eye; When nothing living daunts him, And no fear of justice haunts him, Who wakes his conscience-stricken agony? Who makes him start With his withering dart, And wrings the secret from his bursting heart?- To those who pine in sorrow, Whose wretchedness can borrow No moment's ease from any human act, To the widow comfort-spurning, To the slave for freedom yearning, To the diseased with cureless anguish rack'd, Who brings release And whispers peace, And points to realms where pain and sorrow cease?— Death! THE POET AMONG THE TREES. OAK is the noblest tree that grows, Its leaves are Freedom's type and herald, If we may put our faith in those Of Literary-Fund Fitzgerald. Willow's a sentimental wood, And many sonneteers, to quicken 'em, A relic keep of that which stood Before Pope's Tusculum at Twickenham. The Birch-tree, with its pendent curves, Not only present praise deserves, But our posterior recollection. |