But, when the days of golden dreams had perished, And even yet I dare not let it languish, Emily Bronte. 25 30 CCLIII 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, As Adam saw her prime! The sun's eye had a sickly glare, Around that lonely man! 5 10 The skeletons of nations were Some had expired in fight,-the brands 15 In plague and famine some! Earth's cities had no sound nor tread; And ships were drifting with the dead 20 To shores where all was dumb! Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood, That shook the sere leaves from the wood, Saying, We' are twins in death, proud Sun, 25 What though beneath thee man put forth And arts that made fire, flood, and earth, Of pain anew to writhe; Stretched in disease's shapes abhorred, Even I am weary in yon skies Y 50 My lips that speak thy dirge of death-- The eclipse of nature spreads my pall,— Receive my parting ghost! 55 60 Of grief that man shall taste— 75 Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes A night of memories and of sighs 5 I consecrate to thee. Walter Savage Landor. CCLV 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. Allan Cunningham. 5 ΙΟ CCLVI BURIAL OF THE DEAD. I thought to meet no more, so dreary seemed Beyond where I could soar; Friend of this worthless heart! but happier thoughts 5 Spring like unbidden violets from the scd, Where patiently thou tak'st Thy sweet and sure repose. The shadows fall more soothing, the soft air Lives o'er thy funeral day; The deep knell dying down; the mourners' pause, Sure with the words of Heaven Thy spirit met us there, And sought with us along the accustomed way The pageant of sad joy, So dear to Faith and Hope. Oh, hadst thou brought a strain from Paradise 10 15 20 More tenderly and true, Than those deep-warbled anthems, high and low, 25 Low as the grave, high as the eternal Throne, Our mourning fancies wild, Till gently, like soft golden clouds at eve Around the western twilight, all subside Into a placid Faith, That e'en with beaming eye Counts thy sad honours, coffin, bier, and pall: So many relics of a frail love lost, So many tokens dear Of endless love begun. Listen! it is no dream: the Apostle's trump Gives earnest of the Archangel's calmly now, Our hearts yet beating high To that victorious lay, 30 35 40 |