NOT the last struggles of the Sun
Precipitated from his golden throne
Hold darkling mortals in sublime suspence;
But the calm exod of a man,
Nearer, but far above, who ran
The race we run, when Heaven recalls him hence.
Thus, O thou pure of mortal taint,
Thus, O my Southey! poet, sage, and saint,
Thou after saddest silence art removed:
What voice in anguish can we raise,
Or would we, dare we, in thy praise?
God now does that.. the God thy whole heart loved.