« AnteriorContinuar »
Green grow the rashes, O!
The sweetest hours that e'er I spend,
There's nought but care on every han',
The warl'ly race may riches chase,
And though at last they catch them fast,
But gie me a canny hour at een,
For you sae douce, ye sneer at this,
THE LAST MAN.
ALL worldly shapes shall melt in gloom,
The sun himself must die,
Before this mortal shall assume
I saw a vision in my sleep
That gave my spirit strength to sweep
I saw the last of human mould,
The sun's eye had a sickly glare,
Around that lonely man!
Some had expired in fight,-the brands
In plague and famine some!
Earth's cities had no sound nor tread;
Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood,
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 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,
Yet mourn not I thy parted sway,
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
Nor with thy rising beams recall
Its piteous pageants bring not back,
Of pain anew to writhe;
Stretch'd in disease's shapes abhorr'd,
Or mown in battle by the sword,
Like grass beneath the scythe.
Even I am weary in yon skies
Behold me not expire.
My lips that speak thy dirge of death-
The eclipse of nature spreads my pall-
This spirit shall return to Him