Surges, and heaps Time's strand with wrecks.
The People spread like a weedy grass,
The thing they will they bring to pass,
And prosper to the apoplex.
The rout it herds around the heart,
The ghost is yielded in the gloom;
Kings wag their heads--Now save thyself
Who wouldst rebuild the world in bloom.

(_Tide-mark
And top of the ages' strike,
Verge where they called the world to come,
The last advance of life--
Ha ha, the rust on the Iron Dome!_)

Nay, but revere the hid event;
In the cloud a sword is girded on,
I mark a twinkling in the tent
Of Michael the warrior one.
Senior wisdom suits not now,
The light is on the youthful brow.

(_Ay, in caves the miner see:
His forehead bears a blinking light;
Darkness so he feebly braves--
A meagre wight!_)

But He who rules is old--is old;
Ah! faith is warm, but heaven with age is cold.