The Last Man

All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom,The Sun himself must die,Before this mortal shall assumeIts Immortality!I saw a vision in my sleep,That gave my spirit strength to sweepAdown the gulph of Time!I saw the last of human mould,That shall Creation’s death behold,As Adam saw her prime!

The Sun’s eye had a sickly glare,The Earth with age was wan,The skeletons of nations wereAround that lonely man!Some had expired in fight,—the brandsStill rested in their bony hands;In plague and famine some!Earth’s cities had no sound nor tread;And ships were drifting with the deadTo shores where all was dumb!

Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stoodWith dauntless words and high,That shook the sere leaves from the woodAs if a storm passed 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 yearsHast seen the tide of human tears,That shall no longer flow.

“What though beneath thee man put forthHis 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 artsAnd triumphs that beneath thee sprang,Healed not a passion or a pangEntailed on human hearts.

“Go, let oblivion’s curtain fallUpon the stage of men,Nor with thy rising beams recallLife’s tragedy again.Its piteous pageants bring not back,Nor waken flesh, upon the rackOf pain anew to writhe;Stretched in disease’s shapes abhorred,Or mown in battle by the sword,Like grass beneath the scythe.

“E’en I am weary in yon skiesTo 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 breathTo see thou shalt not boast.The eclipse of Nature spreads my pall,—The majesty of Darkness shallReceive my parting ghost!

“This spirit shall return to HimThat gave its heavenly spark;Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dimWhen thou thyself art dark!No! it shall live again, and shineIn bliss unknown to beams of thine,By Him recalled to breath,Who captive led captivity,Who robbed the grave of Victory,—And took the sting from Death!

“Go, Sun, while Mercy holds me upOn Nature’s awful wasteTo drink this last and bitter cupOf 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 defyTo quench his Immortality,Or shake his trust in God!”

VALEDICTORY STANZAS To J. P. KEMBLE, ESQ. COMPOSED FOR A PUBLIC MEETING,Held June, 1817.

Pride of the British stage,A long and last adieu!Whose image brought the heroic ageRevived to Fancy’s viewLike fields refreshed with dewy lightWhen the sun smiles his lastThy parting presence makes more brightOur memory of the past;And memory conjures feelings upThat wine or music need not swell,As high we lift the festal cupTo Kemble—fare thee well!

His was the spell o’er heartsWhich only Acting lends,—The youngest of the sister Arts,Where all their beauty blends:For ill can Poetry expressFull many a tone of thought sublime,And Painting, mute and motionless,Steals but a glance of time.But by the mighty actor brought,Illusion’s perfect triumphs come,—Verse ceases to be airy thought,And Sculpture to be dumb.

Time may again revive,But ne’er eclipse the charm,When Cato spoke in him alive,Or Hotspur kindled warm.What soul was not resigned entireTo the deep sorrows of the Moor,—What English heart was not on fireWith him at Agincourt?And yet a Majesty possessedHis transport’s most impetuous tone,And to each passion of his breastThe Graces gave their zone.

High were the task—too high,Ye conscious bosoms here!In words to paint your memoryOf Kemble and of Lear;But who forgets that white discrownèd head,Those bursts of Reason’s half-extinguished glare—Those tears upon Cordelia’s bosom shed,In doubt more touching than despair,If ’twas reality he felt?Had Shakespeare’s self amidst you been,Friends, he had seen you melt,And triumphed to have seen!

And there was many an hourOf blended kindred fame,When Siddons’ auxiliar powerAnd sister magic came.Together at the Muse’s sideThe tragic paragons had grown—They were the children of her pride,The columns of her throne,And undivided favour ranFrom heart to heart in their applause,Save for the gallantry of man,In lovelier woman’s cause.

Fair as some classic dome,Robust and richly graced,Your Kemble’s spirit was the homeOf genius and of taste:—Taste like the silent dial’s power,That when supernal light is given,Can measure inspiration’s hourAnd tell its height in Heaven.At once ennobled and correct,His mind surveyed the tragic page,And what the actor could effect,The scholar could presage.

These were his traits of worth:—And must we lose them now!And shall the scene no more show forthHis sternly pleasing brow!Alas, the moral brings a tear!—’Tis all a transient hour below;And we that would detain thee here,Ourselves as fleetly go!Yet shall our latest ageThis parting scene review:—Pride of the British stage,A long and last adieu!