 | Erato, number II |  |
ELEGIAC VERSES,
OCCASIONED BY THE DEATH, OCTOBER, 1833, OF THE HON. THOMAS SMITH GRIMKE.
Gone in his manhood's bloom!
By the great Gatherer, gathered to the fold,
The dark and solemn tomb—
Solemn, and dark, and cold.
How quickly was his race of glory run!
Tears, for the worthy and the noble one.
By the great Gatherer, gathered to the fold,
The dark and solemn tomb—
Solemn, and dark, and cold.
How quickly was his race of glory run!
Tears, for the worthy and the noble one.
39
The strength of man, how frail;
His hold on life, how insecure at best;
To-day he breasts the gale—
To-morrow, lies at rest.
Bright eye, and glowing cheek, and shining tress,
Dim, in the chill and loathsome newt's caress.
His hold on life, how insecure at best;
To-day he breasts the gale—
To-morrow, lies at rest.
Bright eye, and glowing cheek, and shining tress,
Dim, in the chill and loathsome newt's caress.
And the high, manly brow,
Where Genius lights his deathless fires to-day,
To-morrow moulders low,
Beneath the fresh-heap'd clay;
And the cold grave-worm drags his slimy length,
Where Thought display'd its ardor, Mind its strength.
Where Genius lights his deathless fires to-day,
To-morrow moulders low,
Beneath the fresh-heap'd clay;
And the cold grave-worm drags his slimy length,
Where Thought display'd its ardor, Mind its strength.
Tears, for the worthy one!
When last ye met him, in that crowded hall,
Thought ye his shroud was spun,
Or colored was his pall?
No! of us all, on him among the last,
Would ye have deem'd Death's siroc-breath had past.
When last ye met him, in that crowded hall,
Thought ye his shroud was spun,
Or colored was his pall?
No! of us all, on him among the last,
Would ye have deem'd Death's siroc-breath had past.
Oh, that the good of earth
Should go down to the humid grave so soon!
Flow'rs that at morn have birth,
And withered are at noon:
Flinging their fragrance on the chainless wind—
It, and their memory only, left behind.
Should go down to the humid grave so soon!
Flow'rs that at morn have birth,
And withered are at noon:
Flinging their fragrance on the chainless wind—
It, and their memory only, left behind.
The wail that here arose,
Far, to the balmy South, is borne along;
And, as it journeys, grows
More sorrowful and strong—
For every patriot-breast swells high with grief,
And finds, in wailing words, a sad relief.
Far, to the balmy South, is borne along;
And, as it journeys, grows
More sorrowful and strong—
For every patriot-breast swells high with grief,
And finds, in wailing words, a sad relief.
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Mournfully, too, the sound
Of autumn's rustling leaves, and eddying gale
That lifts them from the ground,
Chimes with the solemn wail:
Whispering, Exemplar of the great and free!
How much of goodness leaves the world with thee.
Of autumn's rustling leaves, and eddying gale
That lifts them from the ground,
Chimes with the solemn wail:
Whispering, Exemplar of the great and free!
How much of goodness leaves the world with thee.
| Erato, number II | |