 | Erato, number I |  |
II.
Only a fitful sleep was his:But still refreshed he woke—
And to the aged watcher thus,
At intervals, he spoke.
As regards the manner in which the Penitent is made to reveal his guilt,—a death-bed confession,—I trust it will not be deemed objectionable on the score of its antiquity. Originality in this particular, was neither thought of nor necessary. It is perfectly natural, and nothing more was desired. In this same manner we every year hear of some wretch unburthening his guilty bosom;—though on the very verge of eternity, he finds it impossible to die with his crimes unrevealed;—and because it has been made use of in fiction by a score of authors, (lord Byron among them, in one of his Turkish tales,) it does not follow that its use in fiction should be discontinued now, to the introduction of something less natural, and likewise less poetical.
14
Dimness on my sight is cast:
Death's cold shades are gathering now,
And his dew is on my brow.
I must thank thee, holy one,
Bless thee, for the kindness done.
Partly waking, partly sleeping,
I have heard thee sighing, weeping;
And I knew thy thoughts were given
To a soul unworthy Heaven.
Yet I feel that prayers like thine,
With contrition such as mine,
May with safety hope to meet
Favor at the Mercy-seat.
Partly sleeping, partly waking,
I have made my silent prayer;
And I feel that He is taking
Largely of my load of care.
Blessings unto thee be given,
Worker of the will of Heaven!
Praises for the Gracious Being—
Ever hearing—Ever seeing—
Him whose grace is freely sent
To the truly penitent—
Him whose goodness will forgive
Sinners who repentant live—
And who hunger, thirst and cry,
For the spirit-food on high;
Such in hope may live and die:
Father, such I feel am I.
Unto thee be blessings given.
Worker of the will of Heaven!
—Father, wipe my clammy brow;
I 've a tale to tell thee now:
'Tis a tale of hellish guilt—
Virtue ravished—life-blood spilt.
Oh, I would that it were told,
For my limbs are growing cold.
God of Heaven! if 'twere well,
This moment I in death would lie!—
No—Till the hellish deed I tell,
I feel I cannot die.
| Erato, number I | |