Page:Poems Sigourney, 1834.pdf/205

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"And all the days of Methuselah were nine hundred sixty and nine years—and he died."

was this all? He died! He who did wait The slow unfolding of centurial years, And shake that burden from his heart, which turns Our temples white, and in his freshness stand Till cedars mouldered and firm rocks grew grey— Left he no trace upon the page inspired, Save this one line—he died? Perchance he stood Till all who in his early shadow rose Faded away, and he was left alone, A sad, long-living, weary-hearted man, To fear that Death, remembering all beside, Had sure forgotten him. Perchance he roved Exulting o'er the ever-verdant vales, While Asia's sun burned fervid on his brow, Or 'neath some waving palm-tree sate him down, And in his mantling bosom nursed the pride That mocks the pale destroyer, and doth think To live forever. What majestic plans, What mighty Babels, what sublime resolves, Might in that time-defying bosom spring, Mature, and ripen, and cast off their fruits