The Coffin And The Shroud. Poem by William Billington

WHO hath not seen an Eagle, plumed with fire,
With wide-spread wings in sun-flushed evening
cloud?
I watched one once: it changed into a lyre-
A sepulchre-a coffin-and a shroud!

I read that hieroglyphic prophecy,
Whose baleful burden makes Life gloomy-browed;
For since that hour weird Fancy's eye doth see,
Where'er it turns, a coffin and a shroud!

My soul feels strong as Atlas to support
A world of woes, and burns with ardour proud
To war with Time for Fame's eternal fort,
Yet trembles at a coffin and a shroud!

Love bends his radiant heaven above my head,
Hope's gleaming rainbow spans Life's darkest cloud,
The live Earth seems to pulse beneath my tread,
And yet I fear a coffin and a shroud!

Rich pearls of sound rain on the listening Earth,
The Lark pours forth his music-flood love-loud,
The bright blue Heaven smiles sweetly as at birth,
Still I behold a coffin and a shroud!

Though kingly Friendship round me draws a ring
Of radiant souls, and worlds of bliss doth crowd
In that bright circle, crowning me-the king,
Heart-throned, still sees a coffin and a shroud!

When Love, man's inward light and outward leaven,
Within my soul, where Sin and Sorrow ploughed
Death-furrows, sows the living joys of Heaven,
There stand the scare-crow coffin and the shroud!

O! would these eyes had never seen the light!
Or would that the Almighty had endowed
These human hands with supramortal might!
Grim Death should fill the coffin-wear the shroud!

It must be so: the Crown hangs o'er the Cross,
Life's boat must over Death's dark stream be rowed,
The dying Christ redeems man's Eden-loss,
And tramples on the coffin and the shroud!

A god beside the ghastly Gate of Death
Seems statued in my memory, sorrow-bowed
And ringed with rayless glory!-now, beneath
His feet I see a coffin and a shroud!

O! blissful sign! Dear God! and shall I win
Thy smile, and Fame's, by Sin and Death uncowed,
If I keep bright and pure Thy light within?
Will faith-fire burn the coffin and the shroud?

Will Love's lamp light Pain's death-pyre! Hope make
wise?
Truth's lightnings cleave the heart of Evil's cloud?
Fair Virtue ope the doors of Paradise?
And Faith consume the coffin and the shroud?

Yes! and that wing-spread Eagle, plumed with fire,
By gorgeous sunset limned in golden cloud,
No more shall fright me, turning to a lyre-
A sepulchre-a coffin-and a shroud!