Life and Existence

For adoration all the ranks Of angels yield eternal thanks, And David in the midst.

This piercing cold I feel: my dead wife’s comb, in our bedroom under my heel… 1

Tell them I Am, Jehovah said To Moses; while earth heard in dread, And smitten to the heart, At once above, beneath, around, All nature, without voice or sound, Replied, O Lord, Thou art.

Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr blows, While proudly riding o’er the azure realm In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes; Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm; Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind’s sway, That, hush’d in grim repose, expects his evening prey.

He 2 pass’d the flaming bounds of place and time: The living throne, the sapphire-blaze, Where angels tremble, while they gaze, He saw; but blasted with excess of light, Closed his eyes in endless night.

He 2 pass’d the flaming bounds of place and time: The living throne, the sapphire-blaze, Where angels tremble, while they gaze, He saw; but blasted with excess of light, Closed his eyes in endless night.

No farther seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose,) The bosom of his Father and his God.

Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth A youth to fortune and to fame unknown. Fair Science frown’d not on his humble birth, And Melancholy mark’d him for her own.

Mindful of th’ unhonor’d dead.

For who to dumb forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing anxious being e’er resign’d, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing ling’ring look behind?

Can storied urn, or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can honor’s voice provoke the silent dust, Or flatt’ry soothe the dull cold ear of death?

Can storied urn, or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can honor’s voice provoke the silent dust, Or flatt’ry soothe the dull cold ear of death?

Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway’d, Or wak’d to ecstasy the living lyre.

Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway’d, Or wak’d to ecstasy the living lyre.

Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow’r, And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave, Awaits alike the inevitable hour: The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow’r, And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave, Awaits alike the inevitable hour: The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Let not ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile, The short and simple annals of the poor.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her evening care.

Each in his narrow cell forever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

Each in his narrow cell forever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn.

Alas, regardless of their doom, The little victims play! No sense have they of ills to come, Nor care beyond today.