Poems (Edwards)/The Voice of Death
THE VOICE OF DEATH.
O! where would ye hide from my piercing darts,Would ye cling, would ye cling to the band of heartsThat are circling around you with such deep love?They would hide you away like a trembling dove,In affection's cell with a clinging trust,But ah! ye must follow me, dust to dust.
I sleep on the mountain, I tread on the plain,I ride on the waves of the proud rolling main,I float on the breath of the wandering breeze,And I lurk in the boughs of the shadowing trees,And I hide in the mist that so gracefully fliesFrom the cold flowing river to blend with the skies.
I stand on the hills, and I rove in the dells,I bend o'er the rock where the Serpent-king dwells,I move on the brook, and I rest on the flowers,As they spring from the earth in their vine mantled bowers,Their fragrance steals fresh on the bright summer air,But soon they will wither, for lo! I am there.
I foam in the wine cup, I tread in the dance,Through the bowers of pleasure I silently glance,On the wing of the lightning my darts I bind,And my message I send on the voice of the wind,Through the din of the storm, through the tempest cloud drear,I call to frail mortals, "Be wise and prepare."
If love then be strengthless, and kindness and trustBe powerless to hold us from silence and dust,Then let us be taught, on that Source to depend,Who loves and directs us, whose strength can defendOur souls from death's sting,—who will stand by our sideOn the dark rolling billows,—our shield and our guide,—Whose glory will lighten each deep sounding wave,And pilot us through the long vale of the grave.