Page:Poems (Bryant, 1821).djvu/50



Old ocean’s grey and melancholy waste,—

Are but the solemn decorations all

Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun,

The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,

Are shining on the sad abodes of death,

Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread

The globe are but a handful to the tribes

That slumber in its bosom.—Take the wings

Of morning—and the Barcan desert pierce,

Or lose thyself in the continuous woods

Where rolls the Oregan, and hears no sound,

Save his own dashings—yet—the dead are there,

And millions in those solitudes, since first

The flight of years began, have laid them down

In their last sleep—the dead reign there alone.—

So shalt thou rest—and what if thou shalt fall

Unnoticed by the living—and no friend

Take note of thy departure? All that breathe

Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh

When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care

Plod on, and each one as before will chase

His favourite phantom; yet all these shall leave

Their mirth and their employments, and shall come,

And make their bed with thee. As the long train