University of Virginia Library

DEATH'S SOVEREIGNTY.

Thou art the Mighty One!—All bend to thee—
The proudest with profound humility—
The strongest with an abject weakness, fain
To bend beneath thy crushing yoke and chain!
The wisest with a consciousness complete,
Of utter failure, and entire defeat.
Thou art the Mighty One—all bend to thee,
And all thy vassals and thy slaves must be,
Thy triumph hath no limit and no end—
And all that ghastly triumph must attend,
Chained to thy chariot-wheels or soon or late,
To swell the pomp of thy too fearful state,
To lengthen out that long and gloomy train,
Which ceaseth not to pass o'er Earth's broad plain,
That sad procession for which Earth doth pave
Her paths with flowers—they lead but to the grave,
And all in that procession join at last,
The dense—the unimaginably vast.
Thou art the Mighty One—thy rule extends
Unto the conquered World's last, farthest ends,
All things created, still appear to be
Created—Oh! thou Sovereign Death! for thee.
Each cherub child just smiling at the Sun,
Whose little life in bliss is then begun,
Is a new subject, born to endure thy sway,
And homage at thy shadowy throne to pay;
Yon lovely Bride may clasp her Bridegroom's hand,
But thou shalt chain her with a stronger band—
To thy cold heart thou 'lt clasp that radiant form,
Now full of life and beauty, fresh and warm;
Yon youthful labourer in the fields of Fame,
Thine icy wand shall yet subdue and tame;
And yon vain worldling, to the Future blind,
Each onward step he takes leaves life behind.
Death—Death—that shadowy word doth cover all,
And the whole World's an echo to thy call!
Oh! thou, the Phantom-Suzerain of the Earth,
For whom alone all objects spring to birth!
Proud World of Life—one Death indeed thou art,
And still the sentence is—to pass, to part—
To leave all things beloved, all well known things,
To which too soon, too much the fond heart clings,
To join that dread procession's long-drawn gloom,
Which moveth ever—ever—to the Tomb!
A mighty and innumerable train,
Thousands and tens of thousands—and again
Yet tens of thousand thousands—without end,
While all or soon or late, still all attend
Thy more than Conqueror's triumph! How dost thou
Wear all Earth's crowns to light thy dusky brow,
Plucked from the proud Monarchic brows that bore
Their jewelled circles loftily before,
All treasures that the mightiest have amassed,
Have at thy feet been with reluctance cast—
All trophies that the noblest hath acquired,
Have been given up to thee, though undesired,
For the whole World is thy dread trophy still,
And all it hath but waits upon thy will!
Thou Phantom-Suzerain of Creation!—Where
Dost thou consent to pause, or deign to spare?
We walk but in thy footsteps evermore,
For thine Earth's empire is from shore to shore!