  What gulfs and ridges mark that shaded line, Which banks the setting sun!— The rugged path of life it doth define, When mortals have outspun Their “three-score-ten” of years. The rural margin, form’d by gentle slopes, Here, there, a cot or farm, Reveals, as ’twere, a store of heav’nly hopes Possessing such a charm— We shed our tribute tears. Blest is the hoary head that can with joy Behold the beauteous sight Of the retiring Orb,—’neath clouds, so coy, Fring’d with his golden light, Without recurring sighs! Whose magisterial beams so oft doth paint In the unbounded Vast, Such gorgeous pictures as forbid restraint Of gladness. Will it last?— Oh, no! the moment flies. The city’s margin of this evening scene Is form’d by spires, and domes, Uneven roofs of dwellings; where, within, The wearied find their homes In reeking atmosphere. Yon tow’ring dome, Not seemingly content With its proud quantum of the ariel-moss, Still higher hath intent; But stay—this is thy sphere. Beneath that sacred edifice, so grand, There rests the dust of men— Brave warriors, statesmen, and that skilful hand Which wrought the fabric—Wren. Ah! ’tis a solemn sight. The evening breezes bade the mist begone From off this monument, Rais’d unto God!—then, in full glory, shone The holy firmament, So beautiful and bright. Haste, haste, ye mortals,—lovingly behold The goodly visitor!— Another day is spent, and with it told The last, the last!—sigh for * * * But ’tis in vain—’tis fled. Yes, yes, ’tis fled; and with it gone for ever— Forth from the mortal cave— Ten thousand spirits to their first great Giver— To Him, who Godlike gave: But, Sol, thou art not dead! Those eyes that twinkle ’neath the grey-hair’d brow Of One with wondrous mind— Defining laws to nations—teaching how Rulers should rule to find Love in the multitude— When clos’d for e’er, ah! then thy country’ll shed, O! generous Palmerston,— Its tears for thee, and mourn that thou art dead,— And History shall mention Thee,—in gratitude. |
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