THANATOPSIS

(EARLY VERSION)

Not that from life, and all its woes

The hand of death shall set me free;

Not that this head, shall then repose

In the low vale most peacefully.

Ah, when I touch time’s farthest brink,

A kinder solace must attend;

It chills my very soul to think

Of that dread hour when life must end.

In vain the flatt’ring verse may breathe,

Of ease from pain, and rest from strife,

There is a sacred dread of death

Inwoven with the strings of life.

This bitter cup at first was given

When angry Justice frowned severe;

And ’tis the eternal doom of heaven

That man must view the grave with fear.

-Yet a few days, and thee

The all-beholding sun shall see no more

In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,

Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,

Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist

Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim

Thy growth, to be resolv’d to earth again;

And, lost each human trace, surrend’ring up

Thine individual being, shalt thou go

To mix forever with the elements,

To be a brother to th’ insensible rock

And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain

Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak

Shall send its roots abroad, and pierce thy mould.

Yet not to thy eternal resting-place

Shalt thou retire alone- nor couldst thou wish

Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down

With patriarchs of the infant world- with kings,

The powerful of the earth, the wise, the good,

Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,

All in one mighty sepulchre.- The hills

Rock-ribb’d and ancient as the sun, the vales

Stretching in pensive quietness between,

The venerable woods, the floods that move

In majesty, and the complaining brooks

That wind among the meads and make them green,

Are but the solemn decorations all

Of the great tomb of man.- The golden sun,

The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,

Are glowing on the sad abodes of death

Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread

The globe are but a handful to the tribes

That slumber in its bosom.- Take the wings

Of morning, and the Borean desert pierce-

Or lose thyself in the continuous woods

That veil the Oregon, where he hears no sound

Save his own dashings- yet the dead are there,

And millions in those solitudes, since first

The flight of years began, have laid them down

In their last sleep. The dead reign there alone.-

So shalt thou rest; and what if thou shalt fall

Unnoticed by the living, and no friend

Take note of thy departure? Thousands more

Will share thy destiny.- The tittering world

Dance to the grave. The busy brood of care

Plod on, and each one chases as before

His favorite phantom. Yet all these shall leave

Their mirth and their employments, and shall come,

And make their bed with thee!-