MISCELLAXJSOUS. 83 



No gale around its coolness flings, 



Yet sadly sigh the gloomy trees ; 

 And hark, how the harp's un visited strings 



Suund sweet, as if swept by a whispering breeze ! 

 'Tis done ! the sun he has set in blood ! 



He will never set more to the brave ; 

 Let us pour to the hero the dirge of death — • 



For to-morrow he hies to the grave. 



AVRITTEN IX THE PROSPECT OF DEATH. 



Sad solitary Thought, who keep'st thy vigils, 



Thy solemn vigils, in the sick man's mind ; 



Communing lonely with his sinking soul, 



And musing on the dubious glooms that lie 



In dim obscurity before him, — thee, 



Wrapt in thy dark magnificence, 1 call 



At this still midnight hour, this awful season, 



When on my bed, in wakeful restlessness, 



I turn me wearisume ; while all around, 



All, all save me, sink in for^etfulness ; 



I only wake to watch the sickly taper 



Which lights me to my tomb. — Yes, 'tis the hand 



Of death I feel press heavy on my vitals. 



Slow sapping the warm current of existence. 



My moments now are few — The sand of life 



Ebbs fastly to its finish. — Y^et a little. 



And the fast fleeting particle will fall 



Silent, unseen, unnoticed, unlamented. 



Come then, sad thought, and let us meditate, 



While meditate we m-^y. — ^We have now 



But a small portion of what men call time 



To hold communion : for even now the knife, 



The separating knife, I feel divide 



The tender bond that binds my soul to earth. 



Yes, I must die — I feel that I must die ; 



And though to me has life been dark and dreary, 



Though hope for me has smiled but to deceive, 



And disappointment still pursued her blandishments 



