The sun sets, the shadow flies,
The gourd consumes, - and man he dies!
Like to the grass that's newly sprung, Or like a tale that's new begun, Or like the bird that 's here to-day, Or like the pearléd dew of May, Or like an hour, or like a span, Or like the singing of a swan, E'en such is man ;- who lives by breath, Is here, now there, in life and death. The grass withers, the tale is ended, The bird is flown, the dew 's ascended. The hour is short, the span is long, The swan 's near death, — man's life is done!
HE who hath bent him o'er the dead
Ere the first day of death is fled,
The first dark day of nothingness,
The last of danger and distress,
(Before Decay's effacing fingers
Have swept the lines where beauty lingers,)
And marked the mild angelic air,
The rapture of repose, that's there,
The fixed yet tender traits that streak
The languor of the placid cheek,
And- but for that sad shrouded eye,
That fires not, wins not, weeps not now,
And but for that chill, changeless brow,
Where cold Obstruction's apathy
Appalls the gazing mourner's heart,
As if to him it could impart
The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon;
Yes, but for these and these alone,
Some moments, ay, one treacherous hour,
He still might doubt the tyrant's power;
So fair, so calm, so softly sealed,
The first, last look by death revealed!
Such is the aspect of this shore;
'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more!
So coldly sweet, so deadly fair,
We start, for soul is wanting there.
Hers is the loveliness in death,
That parts not quite with parting breath;
But beauty with that fearful bloom,
That hue which haunts it to the tomb,
Expression's last receding ray,
A gilded halo hovering round decay,
The farewell beam of Feeling past away;
Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth,
Which gleams, but warms no more its cherished
earth!
LIKE to the falling of a star,
Or as the flights of eagles are,
Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue,
Or silver drops of morning dew,
Or like a wind that chafes the flood,
Or bubbles which on water stood,
E'en such is man, whose borrowed light
Is straight called in, and paid to-night.
The wind blows out, the bubble dies,
The spring entombed in autumn lies,
The dew dries up, the star is shot,
The flight is past, and man forgot!
THERE is a calm for those who weep,
A rest for weary pilgrims found,
They softly lie and sweetly sleep
Low in the ground.
The storm that wrecks the winter sky No more disturbs their deep repose, Than summer-evening's latest sigh That shuts the rose.
I long to lay this painful head
And aching heart beneath the soil,
To slumber in that dreamless bed
From all my toil.
For Misery stole me at my birth,
And cast me helpless on the wild :
I perish; - O my Mother Earth,
Take home thy Child!
On thy dear lap these limbs reclined,
Shall gently moulder into thee;
Nor leave one wretched trace behind
Resembling me.
Hark! a strange sound affrights mine ear,
My pulse, - my brain runs wild, — I rave;
Ah! who art thou whose voice I hear?
-"I am the Grave!
"The Grave, that never spake before,
Hath found at length a tongue to chide :
O listen!" "I will speak no more :—
Be silent, Pride!"
"Art thou a Wretch of hope forlorn,
The victim of consuming care?
Is thy distracted conscience torn
By fell despair?
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