File:The International library of famous literature, selections from the world's great writers, ancient, mediaeval, and modern with biographical and explanatory notes and critical essays by many eminent (14577509138).jpg

Identifier: internationallib15garn (find matches)
Title: The International library of famous literature, selections from the world's great writers, ancient, mediaeval, and modern with biographical and explanatory notes and critical essays by many eminent writers
Year: 1900 (1900s)
Authors: Garnett, Richard, 1835-1906 Vallée, Léon, 1850-1919 Brandl, Alois, 1855-1940 Mitchell, Donald Grant, 1822-1908
Subjects: Literature
Publisher: London : The Standard
Contributing Library: University of California Libraries
Digitizing Sponsor: MSN

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ere thy pale form was laid, with many tears,Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall existThy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claimThy growth, to be resolved to earth again,And, lost each human trace, surrendering upThine individual being, shalt thou goTo mix forever with the elements.To be a brother to the insensible rockAnd to the sluggish clod, which the rude swainTurns with his share, and treads upon. The oakShall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mold.Yet not to thine eternal resting placeShalt thou retire alone — nor couldst thou wishCouch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie downWith patriarchs of the infant Avorld — with kings,The powerful of the earth — the wise, the good.Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,All in one mighty sepulcher. —The hillsRock-ribbed and ancient as the sun, — the valesStretching in pensive quietness between;The venerable woods — rivers that moveIn majesty, and the complaining brooksThat make the meadows green; and, poured round all,
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CO O H< <3 THANATOPSIS. 6875 Old oceans gray and melancholy waste, — Are but the solemn decorations all Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, Are shining on the sad abodes of death, Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread The globe are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom. — Take the wings Of morning — and the Barcan desert pierce, Or lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound, Save his own dashings — yet — the dead are there j And millions in those solitudes, since first The flight of years began, have laid them down In their last sleep — the dead reign there alone. So shalt thou rest — and what if thou withdraw Unheeded by the living — and no friend Take note of thy departure ? All that breathe Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care Plod on, and each one as before will chase His favorite phantom; yet al

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