LAST HOURS OF THE HON. WILLIAM WIRT.
See, he communeth at the gate of heaven.
Call him not back.
Detain him not with tears,
Ye loving ones, who from your being's dawn,
Have in your reverence shrined him, next to God.
He drinks the cup alone, most tender wife,
He, who so long hath held no earthly draught
Of woe, or happiness, unshared by thee.
He drinks the cup alone. Thou may'st not drain
Its bitter dregs for him, nor fearless place
Thy soul in his soul's stead, as fain thou would'st
If 'twere thy Father s will.
Is this that form,
So late with manhood's majesty replete?
Is this that lofty brow from whence looked forth
The ruling mind.
How, like the flower of grass,
Is all we call perfection! How doth man
Fall from his glory, if one baleful breath
But stir his nerves, or check the refluent tide
That, visits every vein, or sweep those cells
Unkindly, where his lucid thoughts are born!
"The door is opened." Hark, it is the last,
Last sound, from that pale lip. What scans the eye
That through the shroud of dim disease doth dart
Such brightening ray?
Do hovering angels show
The untold riches of that realm, which needs
