To Oblivion Poem by Edward Henry Bickersteth

Fill, fill me a goblet from those dark and silent waters,
Where the lovēd song of the minstrel for ever is mute;
Where the genius and beauty of earth's fairest daughters
Avail not,—there still is the sweet harp and silent the lute.
Murky and tideless is that black and waveless ocean,
Time may never venture over its broad and stagnant breast;
There dim shadows flit around with an unearthly motion,
And beckon to the fainting souls with promise and with rest.
Stillness is reigning there—Lethean stillness o'ershrouding
That space over which no mortal eye may gaze on and live;
Oblivion alone and Cimmerian gloom clouding
The bowl which broken at the fount no living waters give.
Yet will I pause once more ere I drink of oblivion,
Some sweets may still lingering fling a honied charm o'er life;
Are there no clear gushing streams, no glad sunlit vision,
To chase back from my sad bosom this weariness and strife?
Yes—are there glorious gifts high Heaven deigns bestowing
Over those hearts where affections can never fade and die;
Far o'er this wilderness a bright fountain is found flowing,
And mid the desert waste will some perfumed flowerets lie.
Courage, my care-worn soul!—see fond hope's rosy pinions
Flinging back the bitter chalice over the folded tomb,
Far over the ocean of death's dark dominions
Opening a fair Paradise, where Eden's roses bloom.