'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 Brokenly now 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! |