The Tomb
Which the white worm revels o'er;
'Tis the land whence those who enter,
To this earth return no more.
'Tis the cave of silent darkness,
Which no mortal power can break;
'Tis the bed where they who slumber
From that slumber never wake.
'Tis the dreary, dismal ocean
Which we all must travel o'er
For long ages, without ceasing,
Till we reach the blissful shore.
'Tis the desert lone and weary
Of red flame and burning sand,
Which the soul must pass unmurm'ring
Ere it win the promised land.
'Tis the land where proudest despots
Have no power to tyrannise;
Where the blood of injured Freedom
For swift vengeance loudly cries;
Where the cheek of Beauty fading,
Does but fade to bloom again;
Where the conqueror is conquered,
And the captive breaks his chain.
'Tis the place where quenched is madness,
And where hush'd the wail of grief;
Where the desolate are smiling,
And the wretched find relief;
'Tis where woe is all forgotten
And the riven heart is blest;
'Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary are at rest.'
May, 1826.