LAST things are ever sad: What musing heart grows glad O'er lingering grace? Thou, with a course nigh run, Calm as the setting Sun! Never wore saintly Nun So sweet a face. What! an unruffled brow, Tho' of bright myriads thou Bloomest alone; Spent are thy lovely peers, Sundered by fatal shears, Or ruined mid wild tears And stormy moan; Bewailed by mine and me, Only unwept by thee Stamped by Death's seal, Yet since thou couldst not save, Seeming resigned and brave. Ah! o'er a nearing grave How shall I feel? Feel, if I tarry long, Last of a sprightly throng Facing night Death? When the due tears that gushed From my man's heart are brushed, Be all repining hushed All rebel breath! Mine be it, patient flower! Like thee, the mortal hour Fearless to wait -- Since to true being's spring Death is no foreign thing, Earth frowns on all that cling To vital state. Ungenial soil and clime They who outlive their time Can but expect: Each in its season blows, Then eyes that fondly chose Thee and me, vernal Rose! Turn in neglect. Better the hidden lot Than by a world forgot Graceless to stay. Better let lovely Earth Shed o'er the young her worth -- Smile, as before our birth, Long as she may: Mine to retire like thee Whithersoe'er it be Vanished ones go; Haunted by Peace I hold Sweeter than tongue has told, Till Risen, I unfold New vital show! |