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He did not feel the driver's whip,
Nor the burning heat of day;
And his lifeless body lay
Had broken and thrown away!
The Dav Is Done.
THE day is done, and the darkness
I see the lights of the village
Gleam through the rain and the mist, And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me,
That my soul cannot resist:
A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain, And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles the rain.
Come, read to me some poem,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
Not from the grand old masters,
Whose distant footsteps echo
For, like strains of martial music,
Life's endless toil and endeavour;
Read from some humbler poet,
Whose songs gushed from his heart,
As showers from the clouds of summer Or tears from the eyelids start;
Who, through long days of labour,
And nights devoid of ease, Still heard in his soul the music
Of wonderful melodies.
Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care, And come like the benediction
That follows after prayer.
Then read from the treasured volume
The poem of thy choice,
The beauty of thy voice.
And the night shall be filled with music,
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
AH, broken is the golden bowl, the spirit flown for ever!
'Wretches! ye loved her for her wealth and hated her for her
pride; And when she fell in feeble health, ye blessed her—that she died! How shall the ritual then be read? the requiem, how be sung By you—by yours, the evil eye—by yours, the slanderous tongue That did to death the innocence that died, and died so young!'
Pcccavimus: but rave not thus! and let a Sabbath song
For her, the fair and debonair, that now so lowly lies,
'Avaunt! to-night my heart is light, no dirge will I upraise,
earth. To friends above, from fields below, the indignant ghost is
riven— From hell unto a high estate far up within the heaven— From grief and groan, to a golden throne, beside the King of
The Conqueror Worm.
LO! 'tis a gala night
In veils, and drowned in tears,
A play of hopes and fears,
Mimes, in the form of God on high,
Mutter and mumble low,
Mere puppets they, who come and go
That shift the scenery to and fro,
That motley drama !—oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!
By a crowd that seize it not,
Through a circle that ever returneth in
To the self-same spot,
And Horror the soul of the plot.
But see, amid the mimic rout,
A crawling shape intrude!
The scenic solitude!
The mimes become its food,
In human gore imbrued.
Out—out are the lights—out all!
And over each quivering form, The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm; And the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
And its hero the Conqueror Worm.
To One In Paradise.
'"THOU wast that all to me, love,
Ah, dream too bright to last!