[Poems by Clark in] The religious souvenir a Christmas, New Year's, and Birth Day Present, for MDCCCXXXVI |
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THE DEATH SCENE. |
 | [Poems by Clark in] The religious souvenir |  |
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THE DEATH SCENE.
Thou hast a solemn power, oh Death!
Earth's treasures are thine own;
The sigh of age—the infant's breath—
The cottage—and the throne!
All these, thou spectral Shape! are thine,—
And at thy stern behest,
The form beloved, the face divine,
Are laid in dust to rest.
Earth's treasures are thine own;
The sigh of age—the infant's breath—
The cottage—and the throne!
All these, thou spectral Shape! are thine,—
And at thy stern behest,
The form beloved, the face divine,
Are laid in dust to rest.
When time is fresh, and hope is new,
And youth is lingering nigh,
The world is beauty to the view,
And peace informs the sky;
The vernal field—the dancing stream—
The gay clouds as they sail,
Beguile the heart, awake the dream,
And load the scented gale.
And youth is lingering nigh,
The world is beauty to the view,
And peace informs the sky;
The vernal field—the dancing stream—
The gay clouds as they sail,
Beguile the heart, awake the dream,
And load the scented gale.
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Then, all is life,—and who would dream,
While flowers with light are fed,
That like the passing meteor's gleam,
The bolts of Death are sped?
That love and joy, dependent hang
Upon a Spectre's nod,
Whose will can waken gloom or pang,
And send the soul to God?
While flowers with light are fed,
That like the passing meteor's gleam,
The bolts of Death are sped?
That love and joy, dependent hang
Upon a Spectre's nod,
Whose will can waken gloom or pang,
And send the soul to God?
'T is even thus! From day to day
That mournful Power is nigh;
His frown can cloud the brightest ray
That ever lights the sky:
Yea, at his touch, the palsied heart
Is hush'd, with all its chords,—
While the warm lip forgets its part,
And murmurs noteless words.
That mournful Power is nigh;
His frown can cloud the brightest ray
That ever lights the sky:
Yea, at his touch, the palsied heart
Is hush'd, with all its chords,—
While the warm lip forgets its part,
And murmurs noteless words.
'T is thus with earth! Its haughty kings
Grow weary of its charms,
And turn from all its gilded things,
To Death's remorseless arms:
For joy, alas! beneath the sky,
With Chance is ever bound;
And mortal hopes, that soar on high
Fall soonest to the ground.
Grow weary of its charms,
And turn from all its gilded things,
To Death's remorseless arms:
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With Chance is ever bound;
And mortal hopes, that soar on high
Fall soonest to the ground.
Note thou the leaves, oh man! that first,
In autumn's lonely hour,
Are blighted by the bitter frost,
And wither on the bower;
The high, the topmost leaves are they,—
And thus, of Death, the call
Saith to the stern,—the proud, the gay—
“Dust is the couch of all!”
In autumn's lonely hour,
Are blighted by the bitter frost,
And wither on the bower;
The high, the topmost leaves are they,—
And thus, of Death, the call
Saith to the stern,—the proud, the gay—
“Dust is the couch of all!”
But when a scene of death is bathed
With radiance from above;
When features by diseases scathed,
Beam in celestial love;—
When with sharp pains fond raptures strive,
And fill the speaking eye,—
Who would not like the Christian live,
And like the Christian die?
With radiance from above;
When features by diseases scathed,
Beam in celestial love;—
When with sharp pains fond raptures strive,
And fill the speaking eye,—
Who would not like the Christian live,
And like the Christian die?
What though the burning tears of grief
Fall swift among his friends?
Like Autumn's full and golden sheaf,
He to his grave descends:
Garnered to that low bourne, whereon
A ray serene is shed,
Which gilds the monumental stone
That marks a spirit fled!
Fall swift among his friends?
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He to his grave descends:
Garnered to that low bourne, whereon
A ray serene is shed,
Which gilds the monumental stone
That marks a spirit fled!
Though tender youth may pour the sigh,
And breathe the voice of wail;
Though tears may dim the filial eye,
And turn Affection pale:
Yet these may teach the chastened soul
Upon its God to lean,
'Till Peace resumes her soft control,
And sanctifies the scene.
And breathe the voice of wail;
Though tears may dim the filial eye,
And turn Affection pale:
Yet these may teach the chastened soul
Upon its God to lean,
'Till Peace resumes her soft control,
And sanctifies the scene.
There is a rest within the grave:—
But sweeter the repose,
Where angel plumes in glory wave,
And blooms the thornless rose.
Filled with this trust, the good man dies,—
And as his spirit's wing
Is poised for fadeless realms, he cries,
“Oh, Death! where is thy sting?”
But sweeter the repose,
Where angel plumes in glory wave,
And blooms the thornless rose.
Filled with this trust, the good man dies,—
And as his spirit's wing
Is poised for fadeless realms, he cries,
“Oh, Death! where is thy sting?”
Philadelphia.
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