LXI.
ON THE CLOSE OF LIFE.
Be it the world as many deem
Should founder in the past,
Or, as to many more may seem,
Is in a frame to last,
There is an hour that comes to all
When sun must cease to rise and fall.
The pulse of thought must stop its beat
At Nature's bright array,
The look of thought must cease to greet
The bursting of the day.
That evening fades or morning shines,
The glazing eye no more divines.
Whose the blank night that crowds the dome
When mortal strives for breath;
Whose the blank day which in that home
Lights up the face of death,
A day whose lovely sunrise wreaks
Its glory on the heart it breaks!
EPODE.
O candid spirit who look'st on below
At human nature with a pitying love,
Unto all blame imparting sorrow's glow,
Which the shrill note that mocks thee cannot move;
Thy message is divine, its trembling voice
With thee inclines us longer to converse.
High-born, immortal being of our choice,
While with regret we gather to disperse,
Our ringing ears still listen to thy chant,
Its words escort us to one common bourn,
In us the long-enduring lesson plant,
And at thy coming silence bid us mourn.
