VII.
THE PROTECTOR DYING.
Dread hour! nearing, nearing fast.
Yet I cannot wish thee past.
Death! Oh! but a dream till nigh,
With night cold from eternity.
That cold night doth around me creep
In which immortals never sleep.
The cloud its mighty shade doth fling,
Like a mantle for a king,
On the mountain's awful form,
Scarred through battles with the storm.
So thy darkness falls on me,
Darkness, such as cannot be,
But to those whose soul is life,
To a nation in its strife,
That its wrongs for ever crushed,
The cries of slaves forever hushed,
And every chain forever gone,
Man tremble before God alone;
That man's true right, so long betrayed,
On truth and justice shall be laid;
That Freedom's martyr's work begun
In blood, and fire, and hidden sun,
Shall culminate in triumphs won;
And the world's changing channels trace
A course of hope for all our race.
Oh! how they as the humblest die,
Who part from kingly majesty
To stand before Him!—nothing there
But as His image we may bear;
The image by the humblest borne;
The kings of the eternal morn.
The lowliest man, most void of power,
To stand the trial of that hour!
To come from life in quiet shade,
From humble duties well obeyed.
Ah! if this be a solemn thing,
What then for one in might a king!
To meet the trial of that day
From gorgeous wrongs in false array,
Where false praise gilds the every deed,
Where few warn one that will not heed;
The man whom Weird-like hands have shown
The weary pathway to the throne.