Death's Epitaph

Death in this tomb his weary bones hath laid, Sick of dominion o’er the human kind; Behold what devastations he hath made, Survey the millions by his arm confined. “Six thousand years has sovereign sway been mine, None but myself can real glory claim; Great Regent of the world I reigned alone, And princes trembled when my mandate came. “Vast and unmatched throughout the world, my fame Takes place of gods, and asks no mortal date— No: by myself, and by the heavens, I swear Not Alexander’s name is half so great. “Nor swords nor darts my prowess could withstand, All quit their arms, and bowed to my decree,— Even mighty Julius died beneath my hand, For slaves and Cæsars were the same to me!” Traveller, wouldst thou his noblest trophies seek, Search in no narrow spot obscure for those; The sea profound, the surface of all land, Is moulded with the myriads of his foes.

More from Poet

Where now these mingled ruins lie A temple once to Bacchus rose, Beneath whose roof, aspiring high, Full many a guest forgot his woes. No more this dome, by tempests torn, Affords a social safe retreat; But ravens here, with eye forlorn, And clustering bats henceforth will meet. The...

The grandeur of this earthly round, Where Theon would forever be, Is but a name, is but a sound— Mere emptiness and vanity. Give me the stars, give me the skies, Give me the heaven’s remotest sphere, Above these gloomy scenes to rise Of desolation and despair. These native fires that...

Thou, born to sip the lake or spring, Or quaff the waters of the stream, Why hither come, on vagrant wing? Does Bacchus tempting seem,— Did he for you this glass prepare? Will I admit you to a share? Did storms harass or foes perplex, Did wasps or king-birds bring dismay,— Did wars...

in a branch of willow hid Sings the evening Caty-did: From the lofty-locust bough Feeding on a drop of dew, In her suit of green arrayed Hear her singing in the shade— Caty-did, Caty-did, Caty-did! While upon a leaf you tread, Or repose your little head On your sheet of shadows laid, All...

His soul extracted from the public sink, For discord born he splasht around his ink; In scandal foremost, as by scandal fed, He hourly rakes the ashes of the dead. Secure from him no traveller walks the streets, His malice sees a foe in all he meets; With dark design he treads his daily rounds,...