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'Tis known that ne'er a proud tree fell,
But an heir of his father died;
And he—there's laughter in his eye,
Joy in his voice—yet he must die!

I've borne him in these arms, that now

Are nerveless and unstrung;
And must I see on that fair brow,
The dust untimely flung?
I must!—yon green oak, branch and crest,
Lies floating on the dark lake's breast!

The noble boy!—how proudly sprung

The falcon from his hand!
It seemed like youth to see him young,
A flower in his father's land!
But the hour of the knell and the dirge is nigh,
For the tree hath fallen, and the flower must die.

Say not 'tis vain !—I tell thee, some

Are warned by a meteor's light,
Or a pale bird flitting calls them home,
Or a voice on the winds by night;
And they must go !—and he too, he—
Woe for the fall of the glorious tree!


On Ella's cheek the rose was seen,
The tint was pure, the hue serene;
A while it bloomed, in beauty rare,
But transient was its dwelling there.
Bright was her eye of heavenly blue,
Her lips like rubies dipped in dew;
And sweetest melodies there hung,
On the soft accents of her tongue.

But soon the storm began to lower,
It struck the stem that held the flower,
Her lover—she drooped her head
In sorrow, o'er his lowly bed,
And fading, like her cheek's soft bloom,
Sank like a lily to the tomb !—
Still will the tears soft pity gave,
Refresh the flowers that deck her grave!


All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom,

The sun himself must die, Before this mortal shall assume

Its immortality!
I saw a vision in my sleep,
That gave my spirit strength to sweep

Adown the gulf of time!
I saw the last of human mould,
That shall creation's death behold,

As Adam saw her prime!

The sun's eye had a sickly glare,

The earth with age was wan, The skeletons of nations were

Around that lonely man! Some had expired in fight,—the brands Still rusted in their bony hands;

In plague and famine some! Earth's cities bad no sound nor tread; And ships were drifting with the dead

To shores where all was dumb!


Yet, prophet like, that lone one stood,

With dauntless words and high, That shook the sere leaves from the wood

As if a storm passed by,
Saying, we are twins in death, proud sun,
Thy face is cold, thy race is run,

'Tis mercy bids thee go;
For thou ten thousand thousand years
Hast seen the tide of human tears,

That shall no longer flow.

What though beneath thee man put forth

His pomp, his pride, his skill;
And arts that made fire, flood and earth

The vassals of his will;—
Yet mourn I not thy parted sway,
Thou dim discrowned king of day:

For all those trophied arts
And triumphs that beneath thee sprang,
Healed not a passion or a pang

Entailed on human hearts.

Go, let oblivion's curtain fall

Upon the stage of men,
Nor with thy rising beams recall

Life's tragedy again.

Its piteous pageants bring not back,
Nor waken flesh, upon the rack

Of pain anew to writhe;
Stretched in disease's shapes abhorred,
Or mown in battle by the sword,

tike grass beneath the scythe.

Even I am weary in yon skies

To watch thy fading fire; Test of all sumless agonies,

Behold not me expire. My lips that speak thy dirge of death— Their rounded gasp and gurgling breath

To see thou shalt not boast.

The eclipse of nature spreads my pall,

The majesty of darkness shall

Receive my parting ghost.

The spirit shall return to him

That gave its heavenly spark;
Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim

When thou thyself art dark!
No! it shall live again, and shine
In bliss unknown to beams of thine,

By him recalled to breath,
Who captive led captivity,

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