Away, presumptuous thought!—departed saint!
To thy freed vision what can earth display
Of pomp, of royalty, that is not faint,
Seen from the birth-place of celestial day?
Oh! pale and weak the sun's reflected rays,
E'en in their fervour of meridian heat,
To him, who in the sanctuary may gaze
On the bright cloud that fills the mercy-seat!
And thou may'st view, from thy divine abode,
The dust of empires flit, before a breath of God.
And yet we mourn thee! yes! thy place is void
Within our hearts—there veil'd thine image dwelt,
But cherish'd still; and o'er that tie destroy'd,
Tho' Faith rejoice, fond Nature still must melt.
Beneath the long-loved sceptre of thy sway,
Thousands were born, who now in dust repose,
And many a head, with years and sorrows grey,
Wore youth's bright tresses, when thy star arose;
And many a glorious mind, since that fair dawn,
Hath fill'd our sphere with light, now to its source withdrawn.
