Unto Death, to whom monarchs must bow? Ah, no! for his empire is known, And here there are trophies enow! Beneath the cold dead, and around-the dark stone, The first tabernacle to Hope we will build, And look for the sleepers around us to rise; The second to Faith, which ensures it fulfilled; And the third to the Lamb of the great Sacrifice, 45 49 Who bequeathed us them both when He rose to the skies. CCXLVIII Herbert Knowles. Unfathomable Sea! whose waves are years, Thou shoreless flood, which in thy ebb and flow And sick of prey, yet howling on for more, Unfathomable Sea? 5 ΙΟ Percy Bysshe Shelley. CCXLIX SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND. She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps, And lovers are round her sighing; But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps, She sings the wild songs of her dear native plains, 5 Ah little they think, who delight in her strains, He had lived for his love, for his country he died, Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest, They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the West, From her own loved island of sorrow. Thomas Moore. CCL THE LAST MAN. All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom, The sun himself must die, Before this mortal shall assume Its immortality! I saw a vision in my sleep, That gave my spirit strength to sweep I saw the last of human mould, The sun's eye had a sickly glare, Around that lonely man! IO 14 5 ΙΟ Some had expired in fight,-the brands 15 In plague and famine some! 20 Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood, That shook the sere leaves from the wood, Saying, We' are twins in death, proud Sun, 25 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. 30 What though beneath thee man put forth And arts that made fire, flood, and earth, My lips that speak thy dirge of death- The eclipse of nature spreads my pall,- 55 60 This spirit shall return to Him Who gave its heavenly spark ; Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim, No! it shall live again, and shine, 65 In bliss unknown to beams of thine, Who captive led captivity, Who robbed the grave of victory, And took the sting from death! 70 Go, Sun, while mercy holds me up To drink this last and bitter cup Of grief that man shall taste Go, tell the night that hides thy face, The darkening universe defy 75 Or shake his trust in God! 80 Thomas Campbell. CCLI ROSE AYLMER. Ah! what avails the sceptred race, Ah! what the form divine! What every virtue, every grace! Rose Aylmer, all were thine. Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes A night of memories and of sighs I consecrate to thee. 5 Walter Savage Landor. CCLII THE SPRING OF THE YEAR. Gone were but the winter cold, Cold's the snow at my head, And cold at my feet; And the finger of death's at my een, Let none tell my father, Or my mother so dear, I'll meet them both in heaven At the spring of the year. CCLIII Allan Cunningham. BURIAL OF THE DEAD. I thought to meet no more, so dreary seemed Beyond where I could soar ; 5 ΙΟ Friend of this worthless heart! but happier thoughts 5 Spring like unbidden violets from the sod, Where patiently thou tak'st Thy sweet and sure repose. Y |