 | Poems |  |
216
IN PACE.
Be silent, friend! thy laugh and jest delay;
There lies a dead thing in my house to-day.
A wan and wasted corpse I do not mourn.
Nay, rather weep that ever it were born.
There lies a dead thing in my house to-day.
A wan and wasted corpse I do not mourn.
Nay, rather weep that ever it were born.
Slow moons have watched its still decreasing breath,
And hopeless years awaited each its death,
Yet still the patient, gasping, weary child
Looked for the lingering end and sighed and smiled.
And hopeless years awaited each its death,
Yet still the patient, gasping, weary child
Looked for the lingering end and sighed and smiled.
So some poor dog, for service less refined,
Beaten and cowed by man's superior mind,
Amid its latest tortures fawns and cries,
And licks the hand by whose command it dies.
Beaten and cowed by man's superior mind,
Amid its latest tortures fawns and cries,
And licks the hand by whose command it dies.
Sleep! sleep in peace; secure shall be thy rest
As a dead child upon its mother's breast;
I draw a breath of long and sweet relief,
Broke with past sobs and spent with wasted grief.
As a dead child upon its mother's breast;
I draw a breath of long and sweet relief,
Broke with past sobs and spent with wasted grief.
Yet well I know that ere this day return,
The soul that slew thee o'er thy dust shall mourn;
Feel all too late the loss no time can heal,
And all in vain to heaven or man appeal:
Thy dying pangs avenge in dull despair,
And dread its life because thou art not there.
The soul that slew thee o'er thy dust shall mourn;
Feel all too late the loss no time can heal,
And all in vain to heaven or man appeal:
Thy dying pangs avenge in dull despair,
And dread its life because thou art not there.
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