University of Virginia Library

THE GRAVE.

A SONNET.

Thou small square portal of eternity,
Why on thy threshold will my spirit start?
Why to the inner temple of my heart
Rushes the frightened blood tumultuously?
No horrors in thy tranquil depths I see;
Myriads in gloomy state this way depart,
Till Time looks wearied on Death's pageantry;
Yet, mystic Grave, use takes no awe from thee.
Why should it be, that man his galling cares
Beside thy lintel so reluctant throws?—
Why for his fetters grieves, why hugs his woes,
When thoughtful Faith within that portal bears
A torch which, flashing through the murky airs,
On beckoning Hope a steady radiance throws?

TO HOPE.

A SONNET.

Thou art no exhalation of the brain,
Raising mid foggy doubts thy phantom light,
To tempt thy followers on from pain to pain—
For ever distant, yet for ever bright:
O no! thy luring rays ne'er shine in vain
Athwart the shadows of uncertain night—
Thou proud incentive to heroic gain,
That waken'st from despair the spirit's might,
And from defeat excit'st to victory!
Though, star-like, thou retreat'st as we advance,
And from our eager grasp wilt ever flee;
Yet, star-like, guid'st thou, with unchanging glance,
In glory streaming towards eternity,
To cast a light beyond the grave's expanse.