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WITHDRAW not yet those lips and fingers, Whose touch to mine is rapture's spell; Life's joy for us a moment lingers,

And death seems in the word-farewell. The hour that bids us part and go, It sounds not yet, oh! no, no, no.

Time, whilst I gaze upon thy sweetness,

Flies like a courser nigh the goal; To-morrow where shall be his fleetness, soul?

When thou art parted from my Our hearts shall beat, our tears shall flow,

But not together-no, no, no!


ALL worldly shapes shall melt in gloom,

The Sun himself must die,

Before this mortal shall assume

Its Immortality!

I saw a vision in my sleep,

That gave my spirit strength to sweep

Adown the gulph of Time!

I saw the last of human mould,

That shall Creation's death behold,

As Adam saw her prime!

The Sun's eye had a sickly glare,

The Earth with age was wan,

The skeletons of nations were

Around that lonely man!

Some had expired in fight,-the brands
Still rusted in their bony hands;

In plague and famine some!
Earth's cities had no sound nor tread;
And ships were drifting with the dead
To shores where all was dumb!

Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood,

With dauntless words and high,

That shook the sere leaves from the wood

As if a storm pass'd by,

Saying, We are twins in death, proud Sun,

Thy face is cold, thy race is run,

'Tis Mercy bids thee go.

For thou ten thousand thousand


Hast seen the tide of human tears,

That shall no longer flow.

What though beneath thee man put forth His pomp, his pride, his skill;

And arts that made fire, flood, and earth,

The vassals of his will ;

Yet mourn I not thy parted sway,

Thou dim discrowned king of day:

For all those trophied arts

And triumphs that beneath thee sprang,

Heal'd not a passion or a pang

Entail'd on human hearts.

Go, let oblivion's curtain fall

Upon the stage of men,

Nor with thy rising beams recall

Life's tragedy again.

Its piteous pageants bring not back,
Nor waken flesh, upon the rack

Of pain anew to writhe;

Stretch'd in disease's shapes abhorr'd,
Or mown in battle by the sword,
grass beneath the scythe.

Ev'n I am weary in yon skies
To watch thy fading fire;

Test of all sumless agonies,

Behold not me expire.

My lips that speak thy dirge of death— Their rounded gasp and girgling breath

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