Page:The North American Review - Volume 5.djvu/349

1817.] There is a sacred dread of death

Inwoven with the strings of life.

This bitter cup at first was given

When angry justice frown’d severe,

And ’tis th’ eternal doom of heaven

That man must view the grave with fear.

Yet a few days, and thee,

The all-beholding sun, shall see no more,

In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,

Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,

Nor in th’ embrace of ocean shall exist

Thy image.Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim

Thy growth, to be resolv’d to earth again;

And, lost each human trace, surrend’ring up

Thine individual being, shalt thou go

To mix forever with the elements,

To be a brother to th’ insensible rock

And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain

Turns with his share, and treads upon.The oak

Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould.

Yet not to thy eternal resting place

Shalt thou retire alone—nor couldst thou wish

Couch more magnificent.Thou shalt lie down

With patriarchs of the infant world—with kings

The powerful of the earth—the wise, the good,

Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,

All in one mighty sepulchre.—The hills,

Rock-ribb’d and ancient as the sun,—the vales

Stretching in pensive quietness between;

The venerable woods—the floods that move

In majesty,—and the complaining brooks,

That wind among the meads, and make them green,

Are but the solemn decorations all,

Of the great tomb of man.—The golden sun,

The planets, all the infinite host of heaven

Are glowing 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 Borean desert pierce—

Or lose thyself in the continuous woods

That veil Oregan, where he hears no sound

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

And millions in those solitudes, since first