University of Virginia Library

It might be noon; but Time's dull tide
On the dial-stone is petrified:
The lines are stretch'd from side to side,
But no shadows on its visage glide.
Some crook'd eclipse with twilight gloom
Prepares the earth, like curtain'd room
Where men may see an acted doom;
And coming pangs through the desert boom.
A burst—a trump—that peal of fear!
The voice of God—his judgment near:—
Upstarted from expiring trance,
The sun with restless fiery glance.—
'Twixt east and west—from south to north,
Heaven's clouds before that blast went forth!
A thrill of death,—that piercing tone
Throughout all living bones hath gone.—
The highest birds of wind are down,
And drowsy shades their pinions drown;
The horrors of eternal sleep
Fall darkly on each ruffl'd heap.
The ship that sail'd in gallant pride
And trode the sea-waves down,
Now moveless hangs on the white dull tide,
Like a thin and spectral crown,—
And these that lean by the tall mast's side
To faces of bone are petrified.
All still in the valley,—
A man on the hills;
The last that can tell ye
Of earth's last ills!
For backward smote with awful thrill,
The hearts of men at once stood still;
Yet half recoil'd, with startled ear
They seem to sit in death and hear.
The red sun glares
On each desert street,
And silence sits
At the dead men's feet.
The din of crowds, as crush'd by weight,
Hath died beneath each city gate.