So live, that when thy summons comes to join
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,
And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain
Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,
In majesty, and the complaining brooks
Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed
In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,
That make the meadows green; and, poured round all,
In their last sleep—the dead reign there alone.
The flight of years began, have laid them down
His favourite phantom; yet all these shall leave
To Nature's teachings, while from all around—
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
To him who in the love of nature holds
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care
Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun,—the vales
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.
Shalt thou retire alone—nor couldst thou wish
Yet a few days, and thee
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air,—
The powerful of the earth—the wise, the good,
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up
Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim
Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts
In the full strength of years, matron, and maid,
Sketching in pensive quietness between;
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,
Thine individual being, shalt thou go
Go forth, under the open sky, and list
To that mysterious realm, where each shall take
Into his darker musings, with a mild
That slumber in its bosom.—Take the wings
A various language; for his gayer hours
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart;—
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile
So shalt thou rest—and what if thou withdraw
Plod on, and each one as before will chase
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould.
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come,
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
Comes a still voice—
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread
Unheeded by the living—and no friend
By those, who in their turn shall follow them.
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,
Of ages glide away, the sons of men,
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,
The all-beholding sun shall see no more
Save his own dashings—yet—the dead are there:
All in one mighty sepulchre.—The hills
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again,
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist
Over thy spirit, and sad images
The innumerable caravan, that moves
Shall one by one be gathered to thy side,
And healing sympathy, that steals away
Yet not to thine eternal resting-place
And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man,—
The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes
His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Are shining on the sad abodes of death,
To be a brother to the insensible rock
And millions in those solitudes, since first
The venerable woods—rivers that move
And make their bed with thee. As the long train
Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak
Of morning—and the Barcan desert pierce,
Where rolls the Oregan, and hears no sound,
Take note of thy departure? All that breathe
With patriarchs of the infant world—with kings,
And eloquence of beauty, and she glides
Are but the solemn decorations all
The globe are but a handful to the tribes
Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun,
To mix for ever with the elements,
Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste,—