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COURSE OF TIME.
RESUME thy tone of wo, immortal harp!
Is ended; and the sun begins to fade.
Soon past for happiness counts not the hours; To her a thousand years seem as a day;
A day a thousand years to misery.
Satan is loose, and Violence is heard,
And Riot in the street, and Revelry
Intoxicate, and Murder, and Revenge.
Put on your armour now, ye righteous! put
The helmet of salvation on, and gird
Your loins about with truth; add righteousness, And add the shield of faith; and take the sword Of God: awake! and watch: the day is near; Great day of God Almighty, and the Lamb. The harvest of the earth is fully ripe:
Vengeance begins to tread the great wine-press Of fierceness and of wrath; and Mercy pleads, Mercy that pleaded long, she pleads no more. Whence comes that darkness? whence those yells of wo?
What thunderings are these, that shake the world?
Why fall the lamps from heaven as blasted figs? Why tremble righteous men? why angels pale? Why is all fear? what has become of hope? God comes! God in his car of vengeance comes! Hark! louder on the blast, come hollow shrieks Of dissolution; in the fitful scowl
Of night, near and more near, angels of death
Incessant flap their deadly wings, and roar
The thunder, long and loud, utters his voice,
That has no morn beyond it, and no star.
And all thy glory mourns: the vintage mourns;
Thy weeds of wo, and tell the moon to weep; Utter thy grief at mid-day, morn, and even; Tell all the nations, tell the clouds that sit About the portals of the east and west,
And wanton with thy golden locks, to wait
Shalt go to bed to-night, and ne'er awake.
Your graves are dug among the dismal clouds; And angels are assembling round your bier. Orion, mourn! and Mazzaroth, and thou, Arcturus, mourn, with all thy northern sons. Daughters of Pleiades! that nightly shed Sweet influence: and thou, fairest of stars!
Eye of the morning, weep-and weep at eve;
And gave sweet foretaste of the heavenly harps.
And with the turtle spread the wave of wo-
Ye holy bards! if yet a holy bard
Remain, what chord shall serve you now? what
What harp shall sing the dying sun asleep,
And mourn behind the funeral of the moon!