 | Rhymes with reason and without |  |
THE RULING PASSION.
An editor lay in mortal strait,—In sooth was near to death,—
About to exchange his earthly state,
He spoke with a troubled breath:
I do not fear the cold, cold grave,
I do not dread its gloom,—
I've been too long but a galley slave,
To dread a lighter doom;
But one thought gives me a darksome dread,
As wanes life's flickering taper,—
Who is there left, when I am dead,
That can read the proof of the paper!
| Rhymes with reason and without | |