METHUSELAH.
"And all the days of Methuselah were nine hundred sixty and nine years—and he died."
GENESIS.
And was this all? He died! He who did wait
The slow unfolding of centurial years,
And shake that burden from his heart, which turns
Our temples white, and in his freshness stand
Till cedars mouldered and firm rocks grew grey—
Left he no trace upon the page inspired,
Save this one line—he died?
Perchance he stood
Till all who in his early shadow rose
Faded away, and he was left alone,
A sad, long-living, weary-hearted man,
To fear that Death, remembering all beside,
Had sure forgotten him.
Perchance he roved
Exulting o'er the ever-verdant vales,
While Asia's sun burned fervid on his brow,
Or 'neath some waving palm-tree sate him down,
And in his mantling bosom nursed the pride
That mocks the pale destroyer, and doth think
To live forever.
What majestic plans,
What mighty Babels, what sublime resolves,
Might in that time-defying bosom spring,
Mature, and ripen, and cast off their fruits
