But when the more than Stygian night
Descends with slow and owl-like flight,
Silent as Death (who comes—we know—
Unheard, unknown of all below;)
Above that dark and desolate wave,
The reflex of the eternal grave—
Gigantic birds with flaming eyes
Sweep upward, onward through the skies,
Or stalk, without a wish to fly,
Where the reposing lilies lie;
While, stirring neither twig nor grass,
Among the trees, in silence, pass
Titanic animals whose race
Existed, but has left no trace
Of name, or size, or shape, or hue—
Whom ancient Adam never knew.
At midnight, still without a sound,
Approaching through the black Profound,
Shadows, in shrouds of pallid hue,
Come slowly, slowly, two by two,
In double line, with funeral march,
Through groves of cypress, yew and larch,
Descending in those waves that part,
Then close, above each silent heart;
While, in the distance, far ahead,
The shadows of the Earlier Dead
Arise, with speculating eyes,
Forgetful of their destinies,
And gaze, and gaze, and gaze again
Upon the long funereal train,
Undreaming their Descendants come
To make that ebony lake their home—
To vanish, and become at last
A parcel of the awful Past—
The hideous, unremembered Past
Which Time, in utter scorn, has cast
Behind him, as with unblenched eye,
He travels toward Eternity—
That Lethe, in whose sunless wave
Even he, himself, must find a grave!
EPITAPH ON A RESTLESS LADY.
The gates were unbarred—the home of the blest
Freely opened to welcome Miss C——;
But hearing the chorus that "Heaven is Rest,"
She turned from the angels to flee,
Saying, "Rest is no Heaven to me!"