Sun! glorying in thy strength from age to age,
So long observant of thy hour, put on
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
Thee not to-morrow; for no morrow comes;
Tell men and women, tell the new-born child,
And every eye that sees, to come, and see
Thee set behind Eternity; for thou
Shalt go to bed to-night, and ne'er awake.
Stars! walking on the pavement of the sky;
Out-sentinels of heaven! watching the earth,
Cease dancing now: your lamps are growing dim ;
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;
Weep setting, now to rise no more, “and flame
On forehead of the dawn"-as sung the bard,
Great bard! who used on earth a seraph's lyre,
Whose numbers wandered through eternity,
And gave sweet foretaste of the heavenly harps.
Minstrel of sorrow! native of the dark!
Shrub-loving Philomel! that wooed the dews
At midnight from their starry beds, and charmed,
Held them around thy song till dawn awoke—
Sad bird! pour through the gloom thy weeping song,
Pour all thy dying melody of grief;
And with the turtle spread the wave of wo
Spare not thy reed, for thou shalt sing no more.
Ye holy bards! if yet a holy bard
Remain, what chord shall serve you now? what harp
What harp shall sing the dying sun asleep,
And mourn behind the funeral of the moon?
What harp of boundless, deep, exhaustless wo,
Shall utter forth the groanings of the damned,
And sing the obsequies of wicked souls,
And wail their plunge in the eternal fire?
Oн, talk to me of heaven! I love
To hear about my home above;
For there doth many a loved one dwell
In light and joy ineffable.
O! tell me how they shine and sing,
While every harp rings echoing,
And every glad and tearless eye,
Beams like the bright sun gloriously.
Tell me of that victorious palm,
Each hand in glory beareth;
Tell me of that celestial calm
Each face in glory weareth.
Oh, happy, happy country! where
There entereth not a sin;
And death, who keeps its portals fair,
May never once come in.
No grief can change their day to night;
The darkness of that land is light;
Sorrow and sighing God has sent
Far thence, to endless banishment;
And never more may one dark tear
Bedim their burning skies;
For every one they shed while here
In fearful agonies,
Glitters a bright and dazzling gem
In their immortal diadem.
Oh, lovely, blooming country! where
Flourishes all that we deem fair:
And though no fields nor forests green,
Nor bowery gardens there are seen,
Nor perfumes load the breeze,
Nor hears the ear material sound;
Yet joys at God's right hand are found,
The archetypes of these:
There is the home, the land of birth,
Of all we highest prize on earth,
The storms that rack this world beneath,
Must there for ever cease;
The only air the blessed breathe,
Is purity and peace.
Oh, happy, happy land! in thee
Shines the unveiled Divinity,
Shedding through each adoring breast,
A holy calm, a halcyon rest:
And those blest souls whom death did sever,
Have met to mingle joys for ever.
O! soon may heaven unclose to me!
may And my faint, weary spirit stand, Within that happy, happy land.
I soon that glory see!
ASLEEP in Jesus! blessed sleep!
From which none ever wakes to weep:
A calm and undisturbed repose,
Unbroken by the last of foes.
Asleep in Jesus! O! how sweet,
To be for such a slumber meet:
With holy confidence to sing,
That death has lost his venomed sting.
Asleep in Jesus! peaceful rest,
Whose waking is supremely blest;
No fear, no wo, shall dim that hour,
That manifests a Saviour's power.
Asleep in Jesus! O for me
May such a blissful refuge be!
Securely shall my ashes lie,
Waiting the summons from on high.
Asleep in Jesus! time nor space
Debars this precious "hiding-place:"
On Indian plains, on Lapland snows,
Believers find the same repose.
Asleep in Jesus! far from thee
Thy kindred and their graves may be:
But thine is still a blessed sleep,
From which none ever wakes to weep.
THE dead are every where!
The mountain side, the plain, the wood profound,
All the wide earth-the fertile, and the fair,
Is one vast burial ground.
Within the populous street,
In solitary homes, in places high,
In pleasure domes, where pomp and luxury meet, Men bow themselves to die.
The unwearied child murmuring its wordless song,
The bondman and the free, the rich, the poor,
All, all to death belong.
The sunlight gilds the walls
Of kingly sepulchres inwrought with brass,
And the long shadow of the cypress falls
Athwart the common grass.
The living of gone time
Builded the glorious cities by the sea,
And awful in their greatness sat sublime,
As if no chance could be.
There was the eloquent tongue,
The poet's heart, the sage's soul was there;
And loving women with their children young,
The faithful and the fair.
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