Yon field that gives the harvest, where the plough Strikes the white bone, is all that tells their story now. I stand upon their ashes in thy beam, Beside a stream they loved, this valley stream; band Showed the gray oak by fits, and war-song rung, I teach the quiet shades the strains of this new tongue. Farewell but thou shalt come again! thy light Must shine on other changes, and behold The place of the thronged city still as night— States fallen-new empires built upon the old But never shalt thou see these realms again Darkened by boundless groves, and roamed by savage men. HYMN TO DEATH. OH! could I hope the wise and pure in heart Might hear my song without a frown, nor deem My voice unworthy of the theme it tries,— I would take up the hymn to Death, and say To the grim power, The world hath slandered thee And mocked thee. On thy dim and shadowy brow They place an iron crown, and call thee king lights Of virtue set along the vale of life, And they go out in darkness. I am come, In sight of all thy trophies, face to face, Who? The living they who never felt thy power, And know thee not. The curses of the wretch Whose crimes are ripe, his sufferings when thy hand Is on him, and the hour he dreads is come, Are writ among thy praises. But the goodDoes he whom thy kind hand dismissed to peace, Upbraid the gentle violence that took off Raise then the hymn to Death. Deliverer! God hath anointed thee to free the oppressed And crush the oppressor. When the armed chief, The conqueror of nations, walks the world, VOL. I. |