What though thy cup, with dark devices chased,
Strike pallor down the lip, to mortal taste
So passing bitter with the Stygian mire
And nightshade plucked on sad Cimmerian
waste ?
Yet when the mystic veil about thee rolled
Shifts for a fleeting space its sable fold,
Blown by the flame of the funereal pyre,
Thy vesture gleams of bright, celestial gold.
Gloom-mantled herald of the light to be,
Thy dusky wings that spread from sea to sea
Hide us from evil, and thy sword, though
dire
The sweeping blade, sets sorrow's captives free.
Of all the angels whose melodious breath
The Sapphire Throne with praise encompasseth,
Amid that rainbow-plumed, ecstatic choir
Most beautiful art thou, benignant Death.
THE REMONSTRANCE.
WEARY of life ? But what if death
To new confusion bids ?
Who knows if labor ends with breath,
Or tears with folded lids ?
