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And her who was his destiny, came back | The beings which surrounded him were gone, And thrust themselves between him and the light:
Or were at war with him; he was a mark
Through that which had been death to
And made him friends of mountains: with
My dream was past; it had no further
It was of a strange order, that the doom
I HAD a dream, which was not all a dream. The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the
Did wander darkling in the eternal space,
The palaces of crowned kings—the huts,
And men were gathered round their blazing
To look once more into each other's face;
Did glut himself again; a meal was bought With blood, and each sate sullenly apart Gorging himself in gloom: no love was left; All earth was but one thought--and that was death, Immediate and inglorious; and the pang The brows of men by the despairing light ( Of famine fed upon all entrails; men
Extinguish'd with a crash-and all was black.
Died, and their bones were tombless as their Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld Each other's aspects-saw, and shriek'd, and died
The meagre by the meagre were devoured,
But with a piteous and perpetual moan
For an unholy usage; they raked up,
Even of their mutual hideousness they died,
The populous and the powerful was a lump,
Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea,
They slept on the abyss without a surge-
The moon their mistress had expired before;
The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath
TITAN! to whose immortal eyes
Which speaks but in its loneliness,
Titan! to thee the strife was given
Between the suffering and the will,
Which for its pleasure doth create
Was thine and thou hast borne it well.
And in thy Silence was his Sentence,
Thy godlike crime was to be kind,
In the endurance, and repulse
Of thine impenetrable Spirit,
Which Earth and Heaven could not con
A mighty lesson we inherit:
Thou art a symbol and a sign
To Mortals of their fate and force;
A troubled stream from a pure source;
And a firm will, and a deep sense,
Its own concentred recompense,
A FACT LITERALLY RENDERED.
I STOOD beside the grave of him who Were it not that all life must end in one,
The comet of a season, and I saw
Through the thick deaths of half a century; And thus he answered—“Well, I do not know
Why frequent travellers turn to pilgrimsso;
I know not what of honour and of light
Of which we are but dreamers; as he caught
As 'twere the twilight of a former Sun, Thus spoke he:-"I believe the man of whom
You wot, who lies in this selected tomb,
To pay him honour, and myself whate'er
From out my pocket's avaricious nook Some certain coins of silver, which as 'twere
Perforce I gave this man, though I could spare
So much but inconveniently;-Ye smile,
You are the fools, not I-for I did dwell With a deep thought, and with a soften'd eye,
On that Old Sexton's natural homily,
DEATH OF THE RIGHT HON. R. B. SHERIDAN.
SPOKEN AT DRURY-LANE THEATRE.
WHEN the last sunshine of expiring day | A holy concord—and a bright regret, In summer's twilight weeps itself away, A glorious sympathy with suns that set? Who hath not felt the softness of the hour 'Tis not harsh sorrow-but a tenderer woe, Sink on the heart, as dew along the flower? With a pure feeling which absorbs and awes While Nature makes that melancholy pause, Her breathing-moment on the bridge where
Of light and darkness forms an arch sublime; Who hath not shared that calm so still and deep,
The voiceless thought which would not speak but weep,
Nameless, but dear to gentle hearts below, Felt without bitterness - but full and clear, A sweet dejection--a transparent tear Unmix'd with worldly grief or selfish stain, Shed without shame-and secret without pain.
Even as the tenderness that hour instils When Summer's day declines along the hills, So feels the fulness of our heart and eyes When all of Genius which can perish dies.
A mighty Spirit is eclipsed-a Power Hath pass'd from day to darkness-to whose hour
Of light no likeness is bequeath'd- no name,
The enduring produce of immortal Mind;
These sparkling segments of that circling soul,
Which all embraced—and lighten'd over all, To cheer-to pierce-to please—or to appal. From the charm'd council to the festive board,
Of human feelings the unbounded lord; In whose acclaim the loftiest voices vied, The praised the proud-who made his praise their pride. When the loud cry of trampled Hindostan Arose to Heaven in her appeal from man, His was the thunder--- his the avenging rod, The wrath-the delegated voice of God! Which shook the nations through his lipsand blazed
Till vanquish'd senates trembled as they praised.
And here, oh! here, where yet all young and warm
The gay creations of his spirit charm, The matchless dialogue-the deathless wit, Which knew not what it was to intermit; The glowing portraits, fresh from life that bring
Home to our hearts the truth from which they spring;
These wondrous beings of his Fancy, wrought
To fulness by the fiat of his thought,
But should there be to whom the fatal
blight Of failing Wisdom yields a base delight, Men who exult when minds of heavenly tone Jar in the music which was born their own, Still let them pause-Ah! little do they know That what to them seem'd Vice might be but Woe.
Hard is his fate on whom the public gaze Is fix'd for ever to detract or praise; Repose denies her requiem to his name, And Folly loves the martyrdom of Fame.
The secret enemy whose sleepless eye
If the high Spirit must forget to soar,
To find in Hope but the renew'd caress, The serpent-fold of further Faithlessness,If such may be the ills which men assail, What marvel if at last the mightiest fail? Breasts to whom all the strength of feeling given
Bear hearts electric-charged with fire from
Black with the rude collision, inly torn,
Thoughts which have turn'd to thunderscorch and burst. But far from us and from our mimic scene Such things should be-if such have ever been;
Ours be the gentler wish, the kinder task, To give the tribute Glory need not ask, To mourn the vanish'd beam - and add our mite
Of praise in payment of a long delight.
Ye Orators! whom yet our council yield, Mourn for the veteran Hero of your field! The worthy rival of the wondrous Three! Whose words were sparks of Immortality! Ye Bards! to whom the Drama's Muse is dear, He was your Master-emulate him here! Ye men of wit and social eloquence! He was your Brother-bear his ashes hence! While Powers of Mind almost of boundless range,
Complete in kind-as various in their change,
While Eloquence_Wit-Poesy-and Mirth, That humbler Harmonist of care on Earth, Survive within our souls-while lives our
Of pride in Merit's proud pre-eminence, Long shall we seek his likeness-long in vain, And turn to all of him which may remain, Sighing that Nature form'd but one such man, And broke the die-in moulding Sheridan !
The eye the same, except in tears—
It must be so: 'tis not for self
That we so tremble on the brink; And striving to o'erleap the gulph, Yet cling to Being's severing link. Oh! in that future let us think
To hold each heart the heart that shares, With them the immortal waters drink, And soul in soul grow deathless theirs!
THE wild Gazelle on Judah's hills
A step as fleet, an eye more bright,
The cedars wave on Lebanon,
More blest each palm that shades those plains
Than Israel's scatter'd race; For, taking root, it there remains
In solitary grace:
It cannot quit its place of birth,