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,
Are the signs of a Sceptre that none may disown!

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,

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Who bequeathed us them both when He rose to the skies.

CCXLVIII
TIME.

Herbert Knowles.

Unfathomable Sea! whose waves are years,
Ocean of Time, whose waters of deep woe
Are brackish with the salt of human tears!

Thou shoreless flood, which in thy ebb and flow
Claspest the limits of mortality!

And sick of prey, yet howling on for more,
Vomitest thy wrecks on its inhospitable shore;
Treacherous in calm, and terrible in storm,
Who shall put forth on thee,

Unfathomable Sea?

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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,
For her heart in his grave is lying.

She sings the wild songs of her dear native plains,
Every note which he loved awaking ;-

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Ah little they think, who delight in her strains,
How the heart of the Minstrel is breaking.

He had lived for his love, for his country he died,
They were all that to life had entwined him;
Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried,
Nor long will his Love stay behind him.

Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest,
When they promise a glorious morrow;

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
Adown the gulf of Time!

I saw the last of human mould,
That shall Creation's death behold,
As Adam saw her prime!

The sun's eye had a sickly glare,
The earth with age was wan,
The skeletons of nations were

Around that lonely man!

IO

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Some had expired in fight,-the brands
Still rusted in their bony hands;

15

In plague and famine some!
Earth's cities had no sound nor tread;
And ships were drifting with the dead
To shores where all was dumb!

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Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood,
With dauntless words and high,

That shook the sere leaves from the wood,
As if a storm passed by-

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
His pomp, his pride, his skill;

And arts that made fire, flood, and earth,
The vassals of his will ;-

My lips that speak thy dirge of death-
Their rounded gasp and gurgling breath
To see thou shalt not boast.

The eclipse of nature spreads my pall,-
The majesty of darkness shall
Receive my parting ghost!

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This spirit shall return to Him

Who gave its heavenly spark ;

Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim,
When thou thyself art dark!

No! it shall live again, and shine,

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In bliss unknown to beams of thine,
By Him recalled to breath,

Who captive led captivity,

Who robbed the grave of victory,

And took the sting from death!

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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 darkening universe defy
To quench his immortality,

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Or shake his trust in God!

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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
May weep, but never see,

A night of memories and of sighs

I consecrate to thee.

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Walter Savage Landor.

CCLII

THE SPRING OF THE YEAR.

Gone were but the winter cold,
And gone were but the snow,
I could sleep in the wild woods
Where primroses blow.

Cold's the snow at my head,

And cold at my feet;

And the finger of death's at my een,
Closing them to sleep.

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
Death's interposing veil, and thou so pure,
Thy place in Paradise

Beyond where I could soar ;

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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