Apostrophe to Death

BY MISS E. R. SNOW.

What art thou, Death?-I've seen thy visage and Of revelation shone upon thy path

Have heard thy sound-deep, low, murm'ring sound Thou seem'st no more a hideous monster, arm'd

That rises on thy tread! With jav'lins, arrows, shafts, and iron barbs,

Thy land is called To fix in everlasting hopelessness

A land of shadows; and thy path, a path The noblest prospect and the purest hope.

Of blind contingence gloominess and fear- Beyond thy presence and beyond thy reach-

Thy form, comprising all that's terrible; Beyond the precincts of thy dread domain-

For all the terrors that have cross'd the earth, Beyond the mansions where in silence lie

Or crept into its lowest depths, have been The scattered relics of thy ghastly power-.

Associated with the thoughts of Death! High on eternity's projecting coast;

The tales of old bear record of thy deeds, A glorious beacon rears its lofty disk,

For thou hast been in every rank and grade- And the bright beams of immortality

In every circumstance-in every place By revelation's bold reflection giv'n,

A visitor. Unceremoniously Have fall'n upon thee and roll'd back the shades

Thou'st strode into the mansions of the great, Which superstition, ignorance and doubt

And rous'd a strain of agonizing grief Had heap'd like ocean's mountain-waves upon

Above the rich, embroidered carpetings Thy lone, unsocial, hourly-trodden path.

That decorate the splendid citadels Hope, the bright luminary of the heart,

Where pomp and fashion reign: where bolts and bars Is coursing around thee, and her orbit's breadth

To each intruding form; all but thyself, Extends beyond the utmost of thy shades

Preclude admittance: thou hast added oft And points her radius to celestial spheres

To the abode of wretched poverty The mask that hung in troubled folds around

A larger, deeper draught of wretchedness! Thy pulseless bosom, has been torn aside-

The rich and poor, the little and the great Seen as thou art, by inspiration's light,

Have shar'd thy bitterness-have seen thy hand! Thou hast not look the righteous need to fear,

But thou art chang'd-the terror of thy looks- With all thy ghastliness-amid the grief

The darkness that encompass'd thee, is gone; Thy presence brings. I hear a thrilling tone

There is no frightfulness about thee now Of music, sweet as seraph notes that ride

Intelligence, the everlasting lamp Upon the balmy breath of summer eve.

Of truth, of truth eternal, lighted from Art thou a tyrant, holding the black reins

The world on high, has pour'd its brilliant flame Of destiny that binds the future course

Abroad, to scatter darkness and to chase Of man's existence? No; thou art, O Death!

The horrors that attended thy approach! A haggard porter, charg'd to wait before

And thou art chang'd-for since the glorious light The Grave, life's portal to the worlds on high.

The Times and Seasons, IS EDITED BY JOHN TAYLOR.

Printed and published about the first and fifteenth of every month, on the corner of Water and Bain Streets, Nauvoo, Hancock County, Illinois, by JOHN TAYLOR & WILFORD WOODRUFF.

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