 | The Village Churchyard |  |
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THE KING OF TERRORS.
It was a low, a rustic grass-grown tomb,A very altar in the solitude—
Bidding calm dreams around our stilled hearts brood,
All unaccompanied by haunting gloom—
Death! they do surely much mistake their doom
Who call thee King of Terrors! What though strewed
Round thee be wrecks of empires—though thy rude
And ruthless hand, too oft the lustrous bloom
Of youth despoileth—yet great Death, thou'rt not
What they proclaim thee—it is Life, e'en Life,
That is the King of Terrors! our dark lot—
Let them review who doubt! its wrongs, its strife,
The miseries, the inflictions, that do blot
Our Fate—our wretched fate, of every darkness rife!
| The Village Churchyard | |