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Unto Death, to whom monarchs must bow ?
And here there are trophies enow!
45 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, Who bequeathed us them both when He rose to the skies.
Unfathomable Sea! whose waves are years,
Ocean of Time, whose waters of deep woe
Thou shoreless flood, which in thy ebb and flow
Who shall put forth on thee,
Percy Bysshe Shelley.
SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND.
She is far from the land wher? her young hero sleeps,
He had lived for his love, for his country he died,
Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest,
14 They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the West, From her own loved island of sorrow.
THE LAST MAN.
All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom,
The sun himself must die,
Adown the gulf of Time !
As Adam saw her prime !
The sun's eye had a sickly glare,
The earth with age was wan,
Around that lonely man !
In plague and famine some !
To shores where all was dumb!
Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood,
With dauntless words and high,
As if a storm passed by-
'Tis mercy bids thee go ;
What though beneath thee man put forth
His pomp, his pride, his skill ;
The vassals of his will ;-
For all those trophied arts
Entailed on human hearts.
Go, let oblivion's curtain fall
Upon the stage of men,
Life's tragedy again.
Of pain anew to writhe ;
Like grass beneath the scythe.
Even I am weary in yon skies
To watch thy fading fire ; Test of all sumless agonies,
Behold not me expire.
My lips that speak thy dirge of death-
To see thou shalt not boast.
Receive my parting ghost !
This spirit shall return to Him
its heavenly spark ;
When thou thyself art dark !
By Him recalled to breath,
And took the sting from death!
Go, Sun, while mercy holds me up
On nature's awful waste,
Of grief that man shall taste-
75 Thou saw'st the last of Adam's race,
On earth's sepulchral clod,
Ah! what avails the sceptred race,
Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes
Walter Savage Landor.
THE SPRING OF THE YEAR,
Gone were but the winter cold,
Let none tell my father,
BURIAL OF THE DEAD.
I thought to meet no more, so dreary seemed
Thy place in Paradise
Friend of this worthless heart ! but happier thoughts 5
Where patiently thou tak'st