William Stanley Braithwaite, ed. The Book of Georgian Verse. 1909.
The Last ManThomas Campbell (1777–1844)
A
The Sun himself must die,
Before this mortal shall assume
Its immortality!
I saw a vision in my sleep,
That gave my spirit strength to sweep
Adown the gulf of Time!
I saw the last of human mould
That shall creation’s death behold,
As Adam saw her prime!
The Earth with age was wan,
The skeletons of nations were
Around that lonely man!
Some had expired in fight,—the brands
Still rusted in their bony hands;
In plague and famine some!
Earth’s cities had no sound nor tread;
And ships were drifting with the dead
To shores where all was dumb!
With dauntless words and high,
That shook the sere leaves from the wood
As if a storm pass’d by,
Saying, ‘We are twins in death, proud Sun!
Thy face is cold, thy race is run,
’Tis Mercy bids thee go:
For thou ten thousand thousand years
Hast seen the tide of human tears,
That shall no longer flow.
His pomp, his pride, his skill;
And arts that made fire, flood, and earth,
The vassals of his will?—
Yet mourn I not thy parted sway,
Thou dim discrownèd king of day:
For all those trophied arts
And triumphs that beneath thee sprang,
Heal’d not a passion or a pang
Entail’d on human hearts.
Upon the stage of men,
Nor with thy rising beams recall
Life’s tragedy again:
Its piteous pageants bring not back,
Nor waken flesh, upon the rack
Of pain anew to writhe:
Stretch’d in disease’s shapes abhorr’d,
Or mown in battle by the sword,
Like grass beneath the scythe.
To watch thy fading fire;
Test of all sumless agonies,
Behold not me expire.
My lips that speak thy dirge of death—
Their rounded gasp and gurgling breath
To see thou shalt not boast.
The eclipse of Nature spreads my pall,—
The majesty of darkness shall
Receive my parting ghost!
Who gave its heavenly spark;
Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim
When thou thyself art dark!
No! it shall live again, and shine
In bliss unknown to beams of thine,
By Him recall’d to breath,
Who captive led Captivity,
Who robb’d the grave of Victory,—
And took the sting from Death!
On Nature’s awful waste
To drink this last and bitter cup
Of grief that man shall taste—
Go, tell the Night that hides thy face,
Thou saw’st the last of Adam’s race,
On Earth’s sepulchral clod,
The darkening universe defy
To quench his Immortality,
Or shake his trust in God!’