University of Virginia Library

Seven days from Lamech's death were passed in sorrow.
The day then dawning was decreed to do
Exequial rites to the forsaken shrine,
The temple of his body; of worshipper
Now void, but not of God. For, as on wilds,
Once cultivated, once the abodes of men,
Altars in ruin picturesque survive,
By Saint, or Idol o'er-presided still;
Thus, with our flesh, or buried, or cast out,
His Providence remains, preparing it
For restoration incorruptible.
Therefore, o'er corse, and sepulchre, the Sun,
Regardless of the dead, still rises, sets,
As when the wept-for such vicissitude
Found grateful; hence, the waves dance in their joy
Over the drowned. Air freshens yet, the fields
Laugh, and the flowers do vaunt their dewy charms;
Though day by day, and hour by hour, Time dooms
And slays his thousands: for in earth, and sea
The human seed, in much dishonour sown,
Corrupts but to requicken gloriously.
O Death is kingly, and high state affects:
Quiet, and placid; of uncertainty
Untroubled, and, with destiny at one;
In independence of the illusive hours,
Crowns the pale corse what mystic majesty.
—Thus now, up from his bed with health aglow,
The Sun arises at this autumn tide,
Rejoicing o'er the golden sheaves of corn.
Hues sport in clouds, whose fleecy skirts are checked
With silvery tints of light, and glancing shade;
While the round orb awakes on the blue hills,
And the wild Deer play in his dewy beams,
And the birds sing their pæans: chief, the Lark,
His grassy couch forsaking, hymns the gate
Of everlasting heaven; but, heard on earth
At intervals, the speckled warbler's song
Wafts on the breeze; the pious Shepherd's joy,
His sinless flock unfolding, early risen.
—At later hour, that Shepherd pipes along
The hills, unconscious: pensively, the Peasant
Unlatches his lone wicket; and his flask
The Housewife fills, as he his ripping scythe
Sharpens in preparation; while his Dog
Expects his homely crust. As wont, the Cock
Rouses the barn; nor Partlet wakes alone,
With all her scarce-fledged brood; but eke the Maid
That, laughing underneath the shady elm,
Fills, for the dairy, swift the frothy pail,
Milched from the patient Cow. Thus Life proceeds;
While to the grave a patriarch's corse is borne—
Nor cares the Woodman, as he cleaves the oak
In the deep forest, whom amongst mankind
Grim Death hath felled; and, on the daisied green,
The frolic Children, chasing Butterflies,
And principled in every limb with life,
Dream not of death; its terrours unconceived.