Not the last struggles of the Sun, Precipitated from his golden throne, Hold darkling mortals in sublime suspense; But the calm exod of a man Nearer, tho' far above, who ran The race we run, when Heaven recalls him hence. Thus, O thou pure of earthly taint! Thus, O my Southey! poet, sage, and saint! Thou, after saddest silence, art removed. What voice in anguish can we raise, Or would we? Need we, dare we, praise? God now does that, the God thy whole heart loved. |