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the skeptic's last night.
Beauty of the scene. But who is this, that
Comes with pallid cheek and feverish brow,
And gazes out upon the midnight sky,
As though he sought to read his destiny?
Silent, with folded arms, he stood: but now
He speaks—"Man's race is short, short from the cradle
To the tomb; and then he sleeps forever.
The Grecian sages thought not thus,—but they
Were 'dreaming bigots;'—The Christian's hope's an
Idle mockery."
Comes with pallid cheek and feverish brow,
And gazes out upon the midnight sky,
As though he sought to read his destiny?
Silent, with folded arms, he stood: but now
He speaks—"Man's race is short, short from the cradle
To the tomb; and then he sleeps forever.
The Grecian sages thought not thus,—but they
Were 'dreaming bigots;'—The Christian's hope's an
Idle mockery."
"Presumptuous man! vain dreamer
Of unholy dreams! away with such a creed!"
Wildly he started back, more pallid grew
His brow; for, lo! beside him stood a female
Form, clad in the cold habiliments of
Death. Then Memory, faithful to her trust,
Hushed o'er his guilty soul, and conjured
Up the past.
Of unholy dreams! away with such a creed!"
Wildly he started back, more pallid grew
His brow; for, lo! beside him stood a female
Form, clad in the cold habiliments of
Death. Then Memory, faithful to her trust,
Hushed o'er his guilty soul, and conjured
Up the past.
"Dim, shadowy Form!" he murmured"—
Pale visitant of other days! what dost
Thou here? Say, dost thou come to mock me with
The past, or warn me of the future?"
Pale visitant of other days! what dost
Thou here? Say, dost thou come to mock me with
The past, or warn me of the future?"
