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In my little parlour, where,
Seated in an easy chair,
At the dull decline of day,
Oft I doze an hour away;—
Yester-eve I had a dream,
Of such seeming misery,
That, at last, my own loud scream,
Roused me to reality:
And, though strange my say may seem,
Sleep I'd rather never more,
Than hear again what then I bore.
Time, methought, was journeying fast:
Years, like moments, fleetly passed;
Still on they flowed,—behind,—before,
Across what seemed a dismal sea,
To break like billows on the shore
Of measureless Eternity.
From all his leaden clogs releas'd,
Anon, the speed of Time increas'd;
Till even light could scarcely vie,
With the speed of a passing century.
The hills were grey,—the world was old;
Its hour was come, its sands were told;
The knell of a million years had rung;
And I, alone, continued young,
And, now, the work of woe began,
Despair through every bosom ran;
Death stalked abroad in open day,
And, visibly, attack'd his prey:
No more by slow disease he work'd,
Or in the cup of nectar lurk'd;
No host was now in battle slain,
No man set up,—a butt for Pain
To shoot her lingering arrows through;
No more the earth devour'd a town;
But Death walk'd openly in view,
And, with his scythe, mow'd myriads down.
I clos'd my eyes,—I saw no more,
Until a voice close to my ear,—
A voice I ne'er had heard before,
So dismal that I quail'd with fear,
And utter'd that wild horrid scream,
Which rous'd me from my wretched dream!
Bade me awake, methought, and see
Him, whose doom it was to be,
The last of human kind!
An awful form before me stood,
Whose aspect boded aught but good:
His looks were grim, his locks were grey;
He seem'd like one near life's last goal;
And thrice, methought, I heard him say,
That he came to cast my soul!
My sight grew dim, I gasped for breath;—
(For who can brave a sudden death?)—
A moment's fearful pause ensued,
Then he,—the object of my dread,—
Address'd me thus in accents rude;
I listened, less alive than dead.
“I've said it once, I've said it twice,
I've raised my voice, and said it thrice:
My time is short,—I've much to do;—
I've lately lost my brother;—
I cannot wait all night on you,
For I must cast another.
To make your boot fit well, a tree
You've ordered, as I'm told;
And, once again, I say, in me,
The last-man you behold.”
