Methought that truth
In every tongue, and dialect, and tone,
Peal'd o'er each region of the rolling globe;—
The Simoon breathed it,—and the Earthquake groan'd
A hollow, deep response,—the Avalanche
Wrote it in terror on a snowy scroll,—
The red Volcano belch'd it forth in flames,—
Old Ocean bore it on his whelming surge,—
And yon, pure, broad, cerulean arch grew dark
With death's eternal darts.—But joyous Man
To whom kind Heaven the ceaseless warning sent
Turn'd to his phantom pleasures, and deferr'd
To some convenient hour, the time to die!
"PERADVENTURE HE SLEEPETH, AND MUST BE AWAKED."
1 Kings, xviii. 27.
My dull heart slept. Its panoply was off,—
The festal hour had lull'd it, and the dew,
Swept from the flowers of brief Prosperity,
Fell like an opiate on it. The world's star,
Was dominant.—And so it coldly slept
Even in the house of God. The wakeful ear,
That trusty sentinel, essay'd in vain
To arouse its lethargy.—The organ pour'd
Such full, exulting melody, so claim'd
From all the living one pure hymn of praise,
That rapture's flush burn'd on the brighten'd cheek,
But on the secret altar of the heart
