 | Metrical essays |  |
166
THE GRAVE.
Could'st thou unsolve the mystery of thy reign,Thou gloomy grave! prompter of many fears!
The hidden histories of forgotten years;
Had'st thou a voice to publish and explain;
Thine were a theme to crush—destroy the brain—
To fix the eyes till they dissolved to tears—
O God! the boundless, globe one tomb appears,
The bones of Death one vast terrific chain:
A King lies mouldering there! where rests his crown?
A Woman! who would now her dark lips kiss?
A Poet—and may genius fade to this,
Thrown from his eagle flight untimely down?
O! fearful is thy strength insatiate Grave,
But there's a power far mightier—to save!
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