Death

Oh Death! Thou'rt very terrible, thy hand 
    Falls with unsparing strength on all below, 
Striking the great, the beautiful, the grand, 
    Down to the dust with one impartial blow;
    Thousands on thousands at thy summons go, 
With shrinking souls unwillingly away;
    Yet dost thou stay not in thy work of wo, 
Commissioned by high Heaven, and day by day, 
Heavily falls thy hand upon our breathing clay.

And yet at times that awful hand doth rest 
    On weak mortality, as gently down,
As the soft infant's arm upon the breast 
    Of its fond mother;—and thy fearful frown
    As into very tenderness is grown.
Slowly before thy breath the rose's leaf,
    As by the zephyr shak'n. to earth is thrown:
And while we mourn that beauty is so brief,
With our fast-flowing life, thou playest the gentle thief.

How have I seen thee, with thy hand of doom, 
    Pluck from its parent stem the fairest flower;
Quenching in darkness all its hues of bloom,
    As night the day-beam quencheth, when the hour 
    Of twilight comes;—and I have felt thy power 
Most bitterly, as one by one the ties
    That bind tol earth through life's tumultuous stoure,
Thy hand hath broken; — and these weeping eyes 
Tell with unceasing tears the heart's deep sympathies.

Death! thou hast sundered, with morseless hand 
    The strongest chain 'twist earth and me, apart;
And deeply hath thy desolating brandsen
    Sear’d with succeeding wounds my quivering heart:—
    Happier were I, if thou hadst sheathed thy dart 
In this sad bosom, ere that sunless day 
    Whose memory bids the burning tear-drop start, 
When from our home a mother snatched away, 
Opened the springs of grief that time not soon can stay.

My sainted mother! on the lowly bed
    Where sleep thy ashes in their cold repose,
How aft I’ve bowed in grief my aching head,
    And poured upon thy ear my bitter woes,
    As erst in childhood’s hours, before the rose
Had left thy cheek for the pale hue of death,
    Or the last hectic marked thy coming close:—
Oh! that to meet thee I might yield my breath,
And fly to that blest land where joy ne’er perisheth.

Scarce had these swimming eyes from tears been dried,
     Ere thou, dark tyrant of the starless tomb,
With viewless hand plucked gently from my side,     
     From its bruised stem; the flower of earliest bloom, 
     And quenched its living hues in rayless gloom.
Oh cruel Death! was not one wasting blow
     Enough to fill the measure of my doom?
Or why, alas! is poured the cup of wo 
Bitter and deep, to me, with still unceasing flow?

Insatiate Monarch! in thy iron heart
     There dwells no mercy for the sons of men;
The hand of pity cannot stay thy dart, 
     Winged with unerring ruin, even when 
     The mourner is twice striken for again 
Thy keen shaft speedeth forth;—and yet once more 
     Falls thy pale hand where loveliness hath been;
Three sister-flowers, and the light stem that bore 
Their blushing forms, thou'st torn from where they clung before.

Not in stern terror fell thy spareless hand,
     As it hath fallen when the blasting breath 
Of the Destroyer swept across the land, 
     Sending its thousands to the jaws of death;
     Or, as when heaven's swift bolt accomplisheth 
On man, the work whereunto it is sent;
     But oh! most gently, on the, loved ones, hath
Thy strong arm rested, even as ‘twere lent
To lead them to their home o’er yon blue firmament.

Star after star from heaven doth fade away,
     When morning wakes before the rising sun;
And hue by hue the golden light of day
     Melts, and evanishes as night comes on;
     And Earth drinks up the dew-drops one by one;
Thus, my loved sisters, did your beauty fade;
     Thus fled your life sands till the last had flown;
Scarce could we know the hand of Death had made
Its impress on your forms, ere they in dust were laid.

Sisters, farewell!—and thou, too, oh my mother!
     I would not call you back, nor would I go
Too soon to you, for there is still another
     To bind my soul down to the things below;
     One sister spirit to make the weary flow
Of life endurable; —Bur when hath gone
     That gentle being, from this world of wo,
Then may I join you, where no tears are known
In songs of endless praise, around the Eternal’s throne.