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, 35 Thou dim discrownèd 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. 40 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, 45 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. 50 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-- 55 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! 60 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, 65 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! 70 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, 75 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! 80 _Thomas Campbell._ CCLI _ROSE AYLMER._ Ah! what avails the sceptred race, Ah! what the form divine! What every virtue, every grace! Rose Aylmer, all were thine. Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes 5 May weep, but never see, A night of memories and of sighs I consecrate to thee. _Walter Savage Landor._ CCLII _THE SPRING OF THE YEAR._ Gone were but the winter cold, And gone were but the snow, I could sleep in the wild woods Where primroses blow. Cold’s the snow at my head, 5 And cold at my feet; And the finger of death’s at my een, Closing them to sleep.