Page:The poetical works of Thomas Campbell.djvu/126

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Yet mourn I not thy parted sway,Thou dim discrowned king of day:For all those trophied artsAnd triumphs that beneath thee sprang,Healed not a passion or a pangEntailed on human hearts.
Go, let oblivion's curtain fallUpon the stage of men,Nor with thy rising beams recalLife's tragedy again.Its piteous pageants bring not back,Nor waken flesh, upon the rackOf pain anew to writhe;Stretched in disease's shapes abhorredOr mown in battle by the sword,Like grass beneath the sithe.
Ev'n I am weary in yon skiesTo watch thy fading fire;Test of all sumless agonies,Behold not me expire.My lips that speak thy dirge of death—Their rounded gasp and gurgling breathTo see thou shalt not boast.The eclipse of Nature spreads my pall,—The majesty of Darkness shallReceive my parting ghost!
This spirit shall return to HimWho gave its heavenly spark;Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dimWhen thou thyself art dark!
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