Page:The Sceptic.pdf/12

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—One, one there was, all-powerful to have saved, When the loud fury of the billow raved; But him thou knew'st not—and the light he lent Hath vanish'd from its ruin'd tenement, But left thee breathing, moving, lingering yet, A thing we shrink from—vainly to forget! —Lift the dread veil no further—hide, oh! hide The bleeding form, the couch of suicide! The dagger, grasp'd in death—the brow, the eye, Lifeless, yet stamp'd with rage and agony; The soul's dark traces left in many a line Graved on his mein, who died—"and made no sign!" Approach not, gaze not—lest thy fever'd brain Too deep that image of despair retain; Angels of slumber! o'er the midnight hour, Let not such visions claim unhallow'd power, Lest the mind sink with terror, and above See but th' Avenger's arm, forget th' Atoner's love!

O Thou! th' unseen, th' all-seeing!—Thou whose ways, Mantled with darkness, mock all finite gaze, Before whose eyes the creatures of Thy hand, Seraph and man alike, in weakness stand, And countless ages, trampling into clay Earth's empires on their march, are but a day; Father of worlds unknown, unnumber'd!—Thou, With whom all time is one eternal now, Who know'st no past nor future—Thou whose breath