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'Pity thee! So I do!
I pity the dumb victim at the altar
But does the robed priest for his pity falter?
A thousand lives were perishing in thine What were ten thousand to a fame like mine?
Hereafter'! Ay-hereafter !
A whip to keep a coward to his track!
What gave Death ever from his kingdom back
To check the skeptic's laughter?
Come from the grave to-morrow with that story And I may take some softer path to glory.
'No, no, old man! we die
Even as the flowers, and we shall breathe away
For when that bloodshot quivering is o'er,
'Yet there's a deathless name!
A spirit that the smothering vault shall spurn,
Consumed my brain to ashes as it shone,
'Ay- though it bid me rifle
My heart's last fount for its insatiate thirst
Though every life-strung nerve be madden'd first
Though it should bid me stifle
The yearning in my throat for my sweet child,
'All- I would do it all
Sooner than die, like a dull worm, to rot
Thrust foully into earth to be forgot!
Oh heavens! - but I appal
Your heart, old man! forgive
ha! on your lives
Let him not faint!- rack him till he revives!
'Vain — vain — give o'er! His eye
Glazes apace. He does not feel you now-
Gods! if he do not die
But for one moment - one- till I eclipse
Shivering! Hark! he mutters
that was a difficult breath ·
Another? Wilt thou never come, oh Death!
Look! how his temple flutters!
Is his heart still? Aha! lift up his head!
He shudders-gasps-Jove help him!-so-he's dead.'
THE BELFRY PIGEON.
On the cross-beam under the Old South bell
The nest of a pigeon is builded well.
In summer and winter that bird is there,
'Tis a bird I love, with its brooding note,
The dove in the belfry must hear it well.
When the tongue swings out to the midnight moon—
When the sexton cheerly rings for noon
When the clock strikes clear at morning light
When the child is waked with nine at night'.
When the chimes play soft in the Sabbath air,
Filling the spirit with tones of prayer-
He broods on his folded feet unstirr'd,
Sweet bird! I would that I could be
But, unlike me, when day is o'er,
TIRED OF PLAY.
TO A PICTURE OF A CHILD AT PLAY.
TIRED of play! Tired of play!
The sun is creeping up steeple and tree;
How hast thou spent it restless one?
Playing! But what hast thou done beside
What promise of morn is left unbroken?
There will come an eve to a longer day,
With drooping limbs and aching brow,
Well were it then if thine aching brow
Were as free from sin and shame as now!