And oh! be near when, clothed with conquering power, The King of Terrors claims his own dread hour: When on the edge of that unknown abyss Which darkly parts us from the realm of bliss, Awe-struck alike the timid and the brave, Alike subdued the monarch and the slave, Must drink the cup of trembling[141]--when we see Nought in the universe but Death and Thee, Forsake us not! If still, when life was young, Faith to thy bosom, as her home, hath sprung, If Hope’s retreat hath been, through all the past, The shadow by the Rock of Ages cast, Father, forsake us not! When tortures urge The shrinking soul to that mysterious verge-- When from thy justice to thy love we fly, On nature’s conflict look with pitying eye; Bid the strong wind, the fire, the earthquake cease, Come in the “small still voice,” and whisper--Peace![142] For oh! ’tis awful! He that hath beheld The parting spirit, by its fears repell’d, Cling in weak terror to its earthly chain, And from the dizzy brink recoil, in vain; He that hath seen the last convulsive throe Dissolve the union form’d and closed in woe, Well knows that hour is awful. In the pride Of youth and health, by sufferings yet untried, We talk of Death as something which ’twere sweet In glory’s arms exultingly to meet-- A closing triumph, a majestic scene, Where gazing nations watch the hero’s mien, As, undismay’d amidst the tears of all, He folds his mantle, regally to fall! --Hush, fond enthusiast! Still, obscure, and lone, Yet not less terrible because unknown, Is the last hour of thousands: they retire From life’s throng’d path, unnoticed to expire. As the light leaf, whose fall to ruin bears Some trembling insect’s little world of cares, Descends in silence--while around waves on The mighty forest, reckless what is gone! Such is man’s doom; and, ere an hour be flown, --Start not, thou trifler!--such may be thine own. But, as life’s current in its ebb draws near The shadowy gulf, there wakes a thought of fear, A thrilling thought which, haply mock’d before, We fain would stifle--but it sleeps no more! There are who fly its murmurs midst the throng That join the masque of revelry and song: Yet still Death’s image, by its power restored, Frowns midst the roses of the festal board; And when deep shades o’er earth and ocean brood, And the heart owns the might of solitude, Is its low whisper heard?--a note profound, But wild and startling as the trumpet sound That bursts, with sudden blast, the dead repose Of some proud city, storm’d by midnight foes!