 | Erato, number I |  |
V.
Dark was his crime! his after years, how sad!
By turns depressed—repentant—hopeless—mad!
Now from himself—vain effort!—prone to fly;
Pondering if thus to live—or, strike and die!
“But will death bring repose? If so, 'twere well;
If not!—and ah! that ‘if not!’—Who may tell!
What boots it if it bring or bring not rest?
Hereafter has no Hades like this breast!
Strike!—But Hereafter has what I may gain,
Through years of penitence, and prayer, and pain.
Why should more blood by this dark arm be spilt?
Why add to my already crying guilt?”
Loathing to live, and yet to die afraid,
The arm falls pow'rless, and the blow is staid.
By turns depressed—repentant—hopeless—mad!
Now from himself—vain effort!—prone to fly;
Pondering if thus to live—or, strike and die!
“But will death bring repose? If so, 'twere well;
If not!—and ah! that ‘if not!’—Who may tell!
What boots it if it bring or bring not rest?
Hereafter has no Hades like this breast!
Strike!—But Hereafter has what I may gain,
Through years of penitence, and prayer, and pain.
Why should more blood by this dark arm be spilt?
Why add to my already crying guilt?”
Loathing to live, and yet to die afraid,
The arm falls pow'rless, and the blow is staid.
Such were at times his hopes—communings—fears—
Such his self-conflicts through those suffering years.
Dark though his soul, a Power above prevail'd
In all—and his fell purpose ever fail'd.
If great his sin, his penance too was great;
And He is merciful who holds his fate.
Such his self-conflicts through those suffering years.
23
In all—and his fell purpose ever fail'd.
If great his sin, his penance too was great;
And He is merciful who holds his fate.
On thy far shore, fair I-o-way! he sleeps.
Above his dust, no conscious eye e'er weeps;
For the dark warriors, and the stranger gray,
To other scenes have long since passed away:
He to that home, long to his fancy dear,
Where grief intrudes not, and where falls no tear;
They, wandering deities of lake and wood,
Far to a wilder, deeper solitude;
Their hoary chief, to those elysian lands,
Where crystal waters flow o'er burnished sands.
Above his dust, no conscious eye e'er weeps;
For the dark warriors, and the stranger gray,
To other scenes have long since passed away:
He to that home, long to his fancy dear,
Where grief intrudes not, and where falls no tear;
They, wandering deities of lake and wood,
Far to a wilder, deeper solitude;
Their hoary chief, to those elysian lands,
Where crystal waters flow o'er burnished sands.
| Erato, number I | |