Page:The New Monthly Magazine - Volume 102.djvu/379

Rh All, all are gone! These ruins tell

Of generations now no more;

Phantoms—passed from this world to dwell

Upon Oblivion's mystic shore!

The sun is setting, and its golden rays

Are streaming over yon fair lake, which seems

Calm, as the cherub smile that sweetly plays

Around the lips of infancy, while dreams

Of placid joys their guardian angels send.

Yon skiff, scarce moving on it glassy breast,

Reflected there, seems with its wave to blend.

The winds are hushed ; nature appears to rest;

And the lone hills around seem to look down

Protectingly upon the tranquil scene.

The craggy heights have lost their gloomy frown,

And every little scattered patch of green

Stands forth in strong relief, beneath the light

Shed by the glorious orb, whose parting beams

Shine with fresh splendour ere they fade in night,

Or yield to the pale moon's uncertain gleams.

So must all Beauty—Pleasure—Glory—fade,

Like the bright tints of yonder gorgeous sky—

Till man, lost for a time 'midst Death's cold shade,

Shall rise to realms of endless day on high.

Behold—how the warm floods of amber light

Poured from yon gold and crimson clouds, illume

That lonely church's venerable dome—

And to its ivy -covered walls, a bright

And cheerful aspect lend! The dark yews smile

Beneath that glow, and every marble tomb

It gilds. Even from th' abode of Death, its gloom

The sunset hour hath power to chase awhile.

But through the damp, cold earth, no ray can steal

To shine upon the coffin's blackened lid,

Or with its sparkling light the sleepers wake.

No—never more their mouldering forms shall feel

That sunset glow—within the deep grave hid—

The last dread trump alone their rest shall break!