Upon evening’s fading glories, for his life was ebbing fast;
And dim, to him, the rosy earth, though beautifully bright,
And dark, to him, the western heaven, though bathed in golden light.
Yet, though his feeble sight no more might trace the forms of earth,
His kindling soul looked from its clay, prophetically forth;
Futurity’s enfolding shroud rolled heavily away,
And ages, yet to be revealed, their secrets to the day.
Nations unborn around him thronged, with all their deeds and doom,
And the Patriarch glowed with prophecy, on the confines of the tomb.
The day declined in Egypt, and the Patriarch’s sons drew nigh,