He is no more--these breathings are his last;
His wanderings done, his visions ebbing fast,
And he himself as nothing: --if he was
Aught but a phantasy, and could be classed
With forms which live and suffer--let that pass -
His shadow fades away into Destruction's mass,
CLXV.
Which gathers shadow, substance, life, and all
That we inherit in its mortal shroud,
And spreads the dim and universal pall
Thro' which all things grow phantoms; and the cloud
Between us sinks and all which ever glowed,
Till Glory's self is twilight, and displays
A melancholy halo scarce allowed
To hover on the verge of darkness; rays
Sadder than saddest night, for they distract the gaze,
CLXVI.
And send us prying into the abyss,
To gather what we shall be when the frame
Shall be resolved to something less than this
Its wretched essence; and to dream of fame,
And wipe the dust from off the idle name
We never more shall hear,--but never more,
Oh, happier thought! can we be made the same:
It is enough, in sooth, that ONCE we bore
These fardels of the heart--the heart whose sweat was gore.
CLXVII.
Hark! forth from the abyss a voice proceeds,
A long, low distant murmur of dread sound,
Such as arises when a nation bleeds
With some deep and immedicable wound;
Through storm and darkness yawns the rending ground.
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