 | Erato, number II |  |
51
THE CHOLERA YEAR....1832.
Death! thou hast had thy harvest! this has been
A year of wailing, and a year of woe:
We can but mourn—for thou hast gathered in
The brightest and most beautiful below:
And many, as we fear, unfit to go,
Have heard thy summons, and have felt thy touch;
It may be weakness, but the tear will flow,
And the heart sorrow, for the fate of such.
A year of wailing, and a year of woe:
We can but mourn—for thou hast gathered in
The brightest and most beautiful below:
And many, as we fear, unfit to go,
Have heard thy summons, and have felt thy touch;
It may be weakness, but the tear will flow,
And the heart sorrow, for the fate of such.
How many a cherish'd one hast thou o'ertaken,
Grim King of Terrors, in thy goings forth!
How many, from Life's Rose-tree, hast thou shaken
Of the fair, Eve-like flowers of the earth!
How many, in the glittering halls of mirth,
Hast thou arrested, while the eye was bright
With gladness, and the laughing lip gave birth
To the heart's language, and its full delight!
Grim King of Terrors, in thy goings forth!
How many, from Life's Rose-tree, hast thou shaken
Of the fair, Eve-like flowers of the earth!
How many, in the glittering halls of mirth,
Hast thou arrested, while the eye was bright
With gladness, and the laughing lip gave birth
To the heart's language, and its full delight!
52
Thou hast come arm'd with Pestilence! the child
Hath fallen, stricken on its mother's breast;
And, while with sudden sorrow almost wild,
She too is stricken, and is laid to rest!
And ere her lately living limbs are drest,
And straighten'd for the grave, the friends that do
This last sad act—the truest and the best—
The Desolator's scourge may smite them too!
Hath fallen, stricken on its mother's breast;
And, while with sudden sorrow almost wild,
She too is stricken, and is laid to rest!
And ere her lately living limbs are drest,
And straighten'd for the grave, the friends that do
This last sad act—the truest and the best—
The Desolator's scourge may smite them too!
Genius, at thy approach, hath furl'd its wings;
Grandeur hath doff'd its purple—might its power;
Hope and Religion sought the land where springs
Eternal Joy, to gild each blissful hour;
And Guilt, repentant, burst the clouds which lour
Around its way, and hide the pleasant sky.
Death! thou art great and mighty to devour—
But thy commission dateth from on high.
Grandeur hath doff'd its purple—might its power;
Hope and Religion sought the land where springs
Eternal Joy, to gild each blissful hour;
And Guilt, repentant, burst the clouds which lour
Around its way, and hide the pleasant sky.
Death! thou art great and mighty to devour—
But thy commission dateth from on high.
Then let none question!—He who dwelleth there,
Knoweth his purposes—and seeth all!
The Pestilence which cometh on the air
But reaps and gathers those which else might fall
By famine, or the sword. By some, the call
Is welcomed, and is heard without a sigh:
They could with their own hands adjust the pall—
And, praying, close their eyes—and, smiling, die!
Knoweth his purposes—and seeth all!
The Pestilence which cometh on the air
But reaps and gathers those which else might fall
By famine, or the sword. By some, the call
Is welcomed, and is heard without a sigh:
They could with their own hands adjust the pall—
And, praying, close their eyes—and, smiling, die!
| Erato, number II | |