THINK upon Death, 'tis good to think of Death, But better far to think upon the Dead. Death is a spectre with a bony head,
Or the mere mortal body without breath, The state foredoom'd of every son of Seth, Decomposition-dust, or dreamless sleep. But the dear Dead are they for whom we weep. For whom I credit all the Bible saith.
Dead is my father, dead is my good mother, And what on earth have I to do but die?
But if by grace I reach the blessed sky,
I fain would see the same, and not another; The very father that I used to see,
The mother that has nursed me on her knee.
WHAT is the meaning of the word “sublime,” Utter'd full oft, and never yet explain'd?
It is a truth that cannot be contain'd
In formal bounds of thought, in prose, or rhyme. 'Tis the Eternal struggling out of Time.
It is in man a birth-mark of his kind
That proves him kindred with immaculate mind, The son of him that in the stainless prime Was God's own image. Whatsoe'er creates At once abasement, and a sense of glory, Whate'er of sight, sound, feeling, fact, or story, Exalts the man, and yet the self rebates, That is the true sublime, which can confess In weakness strength, the great in littleness.
FAR from the sight of earth, yet bright and plain "orb of song"
As the clear noon-day sun, an
Lovely and bright is seen, amid the throng
Of lesser stars, that rise, and wax, and wane,
The transient rulers of the fickle main,
One constant light gleams through the dark and long And narrow aisle of memory. How strong,
How fortified with all the numerous train
Of truths wert thou, Great Poet of mankind, Who told'st in verse as mighty as the sea, And various as the voices of the wind, The strength of passion rising in the glee Of battle. Fear was glorified by thee, And Death is lovely in thy tale enshrined.
"TWERE surely hard to toil without an aim. Then shall the toil of an immortal mind Spending its strength for good of human kind Have no reward on earth but empty fame? Oh, say not so. "Tis not the echoed name, Dear though it be-dear to the wafting wind, That is not all the poet leaves behind, That once has kindled an undying flame. And what is that? It is a happy feeling
Begot by bird, or flower, or vernal bee. 'Tis aught that acts, unconsciously revealing To mortal man his immortality.
Then think, O Poet, think how bland, how healing,
The beauty thou hast taught thy fellow men to see.
YES, mighty Poet, we have read thy lines, And felt our hearts the better for the reading. A friendly spirit, from thy soul proceeding, Unites our souls; the light from thee that shines Like the first break of morn, dissolves, combines All creatures with a living flood of beauty. For thou hast proved that purest joy is duty, And love a fondling, that the trunk entwines Of sternest fortitude. Oh, what must be Thy glory here, and what the huge reward In that blest region of thy poesy? For long as man exists, immortal Bard, Friends, husbands, wives, in sadness or in glee,
Shall love each other more for loving thee.
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