Awe-struck alike the timid and the brave,
Alike subdued the monarch and the slave,
Must drink the cup of trembling4[1]—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!5[2]
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 brisk 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,
