Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood,
    With dauntless words and high,
  That shook the sear leaves from the wood,
    As if a storm passed 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 years
  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,
  Healed not a passion or a pang
    Entailed 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;
  Stretched in disease’s shapes abhorred,
  Or mown in battle by the sword,
    Like grass beneath the scythe.

  Even 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 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! 
  No! it shall live again, and shine
  In bliss unknown to beams of thine,
    By Him recalled to breath,
  Who captive led captivity,
  Who robbed the grave of victory,
    And took the sting from death!

  Go, Sun, while mercy holds me up
    On Nature’s awful waste
  To drink this last and bitter cup
    Of grief that man shall taste,—­
  Go, tell the night that hides thy face,
  Thou saw’st the last of Adam’s race,
    On earth’s sepulchral clod,
  The darkening universe defy
  To quench his immortality,
    Or shake his trust in God!

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

* * * * *

WHEN.

  If I were told that I must die to-morrow,
        That the next sun
  Which sinks should bear me past all fear and sorrow
        For any one,
  All the fight fought, all the short journey through. 
        What should I do?

  I do not think that I should shrink or falter,
        But just go on,
  Doing my work, nor change nor seek to alter
        Aught that is gone;
  But rise and move and love and smile and pray
        For one more day.