Classic Poem

Obscure is the foot of a traveller from far,
Who is wheeling along in his mortal car,
With direful look and poisoning breath,
And flaming sword in his hand of death, —
Who strikes with sudden and awful blow,
And stings our hearts with deepest wo; —
Who reels his thousands 'mong the dead,
With a power which fills the earth with dread.


He sends before him a warning voice,
To sadden the heart that would else rejoice —
To waken the soul from its sloth secure,
And make it reflect on its state impure.
Yet some will laugh at his awful name,
Whose consciences know not the power of shame, —
Whose hearts are dyed with deepest stain,
And whose souls are nearest the realms of pain.

He leaves behind, bent o'er the slain,
The eye of grief and the brow of pain;
The piercing cries of a mother's heart,
Who is forced with her only child to part;
And fathers mourn, and orphans weep —
But those they loved are in slumbers deep,
And ne'er shall wake from their clayey bed.
Till the things of earth are forever fled.

Oh! hard is the thoughtless heart within,
When played upon by the power of sin;
And cold is the pulse, while beating there,
That answers not to a friend's despair;
And dry are those eyes which have no tears,
To shed for the loss of youth's compeers;
And hateful the look of that haggard face,
Which sympathy leaves for a fitter place.

Then let our wishes reach the throne,
To him who saves, and saves alone;
Whose great compassion still is near —
Who loves even fallen man most dear, —
For Death's the messenger of God,
Who wings our souls from this abode, —
From whence they rise to yon bright sky,
And enter on eternity.