THE LAST MAN. What though beneath thee man put forth His pomp, his pride, and skill; And arts that made fire, flood, and earth, Yet mourn I not thy parted sway, And triumphs that beneath thee sprang, Entail'd on human hearts. Go, let oblivion's curtain fall Nor with thy rising beams recall Its piteous pageants bring not back, Stretch'd in disease's shapes abhorr'd, E'en I am weary in yon skies Behold not me expire. My lips that speak thy dirge of death-Their rounded gasp and gurgling breath To see thou shalt not boast; The eclipse of Nature spreads my pall,The majesty of Darkness shall Receive my parting ghost! This spirit shall return to Him Who gave its heavenly spark; Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim When thou thyself art dark! THE LAST MAN. No! it shall live again, and shine Who robb'd the grave of Victory,— Go, Sun, while Mercy holds me up Of grief that man shall taste— On Earth's sepulchral clod, The darkening universe defy Or shake his trust in God! Campbell. ETERNAL Hope! when yonder spheres sublime Peal'd their first notes to sound the march of Time, Thy joyous youth began-but not to fade When all the sister planets have decay'd; When wrapt in fire the realms of ether glow, And Heaven's last thunder shakes the world below; Same. THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB. And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green, For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, But through it there roll'd not the breath of his pride; And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. And there lay the rider distorted and pale, With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail; And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, Lord Byron. ST. STEPHEN'S DAY. THE Son of God goes forth to war, Who best can drink His cup of woe, Who patient bears His Cross below, The martyr first, whose eagle eye Like Him, with pardon on his tongue In midst of mortal pain, He pray'd for them that did the wrong Who follows in his train? A glorious band, the chosen few On whom the Spirit came; Twelve valiant saints, their hope they knew, And mock'd the cross and flame. They met the tyrant's brandish'd steel, The lion's gory mane; They bow'd their necks the death to feel! Who follows in their train? |