  Oh! thou resistless and relentless power! Mighty, mysterious in thy every form: Unbidden thou com'st to mar the natal hour, Stealing the heart's young pulse, with life scarce warm. And thou art there where the green vine is turning Its gentle fragrance from Love's rosy bower; And thou art there where silent stars are burning, Sweetly and calmly, o'er the bridal hour. And thou art there where young Joy in his mirth Presses his cup to lips of human wo, And thou art there where Pleasure hath its birth, Following its footsteps wheresoe'er they go! And ah! where art thou not, mysterious Death! The young, the fair, the pure in heart, are thine; Beauty, and love, and power, these all have breath But for thy conquering; and hope divine, And bliss, and sweet affection, and the tear That sparkles in the eye of love; the sigh That moves soft pity in the soul sincere, All, all are thine, O Death! for all must die! Passing like blossoms from the earth away, All that of life or being hath its share; The heart hath scarce its hour of hope to pray, For thy cold hand, O Death! is everywhere! Edmund Brewster Green. New-York, September, 1843. |
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