A PASSING YEAR.
165
As if to hold his royalty from Death,
One leaned beside him with an icy breath.
One leaned beside him with an icy breath.
Nor earth, nor heaven will save
Us from the Doom which claimed that mighty thing;
But, then, who fears or thinks upon the grave—
That narrow dark through which the free may spring
To the wide light beyond? Who seeks to cling
With coward grasp to fetters and to strife?
Death is the only haleyon whose white wing
Can still the billows of a restless life.
Yet, were the present peace, the future woe,
New storms are better than a calm we know.
Us from the Doom which claimed that mighty thing;
But, then, who fears or thinks upon the grave—
That narrow dark through which the free may spring
To the wide light beyond? Who seeks to cling
With coward grasp to fetters and to strife?
Death is the only haleyon whose white wing
Can still the billows of a restless life.
Yet, were the present peace, the future woe,
New storms are better than a calm we know.
He said, "My sceptre cast
Its shadows far as God's dominions lie;
Storms blew their thunder-trumpets as I passed,
And lightnings followed me about the sky.
I clasped the unwilling worlds and heard them sigh
Against my breast with all their winds and waves;
Ay, as my victor chariot hurried by,
Sun, star, and comet, like affrighted slaves,
Flung portions of their measured light below
Its silent wheels to make a triumph glow.
Its shadows far as God's dominions lie;
Storms blew their thunder-trumpets as I passed,
And lightnings followed me about the sky.
I clasped the unwilling worlds and heard them sigh
Against my breast with all their winds and waves;
Ay, as my victor chariot hurried by,
Sun, star, and comet, like affrighted slaves,
Flung portions of their measured light below
Its silent wheels to make a triumph glow.
