# The North American Review/Volume 5/Issue 15/Thanatopsis

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North-American Review 5 (15): 338–340 (Sep. 1817)
This is the originally published edition of the poem, which differs from all all later publications. The author republished the poem in 1821 in a collection of works called Poems. He replaced the introductory section, made a few minor changes to the text, and added material to the end of the poem.
The four introductory stanzas of this version were added by the editors. The author's text begins with "Yet a few days, . . ."
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Thanatopsis.
Not that from life, and all its woes The hand of death shall set me free; Not that this head, shall then repose In the low vale most peacefully.
Ah, when I touch time’s farthest brink, A kinder solace must attend; It chills my very soul, to think On that dread hour when life must end.
In vain the flatt’ring verse may breathe, Of ease from pain, and rest from strife, ​There is a sacred dread of death Inwoven with the strings of life.
This bitter cup at first was given When angry justice frown’d severe, And ’tis th’ eternal doom of heaven That man must view the grave with fear.
——————— Yet a few days, and thee, The all-beholding sun, shall see no more, In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground, Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears, Nor in th’ embrace of ocean shall exist Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim Thy growth, to be resolv’d to earth again; And, lost each human trace, surrend’ring up Thine individual being, shalt thou go To mix forever with the elements, To be a brother to th’ insensible rock And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould. Yet not to thy eternal resting place Shalt thou retire alone—nor couldst thou wish Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down With patriarchs of the infant world—with kings The powerful of the earth—the wise, the good, Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, All in one mighty sepulchre.—The hills, Rock-ribb’d and ancient as the sun,—the vales Stretching in pensive quietness between; The venerable woods—the floods that move In majesty,—and the complaining brooks, That wind among the meads, and make them green, Are but the solemn decorations all, Of the great tomb of man.—The golden sun, The planets, all the infinite host of heaven Are glowing 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 Borean desert pierce— Or lose thyself in the continuous woods That veil Oregan, where he hears no sound Save his own dashings—yet—the dead are there,
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 shalt fall Unnoticed by the living—and no friend Take note of thy departure? Thousands more Will share thy destiny.—The tittering world Dance to the grave. The busy brood of care Plod on, and each one chases as before His favourite phantom.—Yet all these shall leave Their mirth and their employments, and shall come And make their bed with thee! ———————