So our movements straight are bearing
Courses to the silent grave,
All alike its terrors sharing,
E'en the monarch and the slave.
From its verge there's no retreating,
Wayward, helpless masses throng;
Nature's wheels are still repeating
Revolutions swift and strong.
Onward with the current rushing
Atoms and their kindred blend;
Worlds to dust in fragments crushing,
As they proximate the end.
Thus all things, in perfect keeping,
Point direct to that dread day
When the trump shall wake the sleeping,
And this orb shall fade away:
When the planets wildly rolling,
As by Heaven's fierce lightnings hurled,
Thunders deep, like curfew's tolling
Requiems of the dying world:
Then shall join, in quick succession,
Stars, celestial bodies, all,
Form the trembling, vast procession
At their Maker's final call. S. S. HORNOR.