 | The poems and prose writings of Sumner Lincoln Fairfield |  |
THE LAST SONG.
'T is the last song—the last song of a wronged and injured spirit,
That, through woe and misery, only death can inherit;
The last song of a northern bard beneath a southern clime,
The last heart-breathing, burning words in all the lapse of time.
That, through woe and misery, only death can inherit;
The last song of a northern bard beneath a southern clime,
The last heart-breathing, burning words in all the lapse of time.
If to the spirit God has given we ever would be true,
If the evil world would render e'er the tribute that is due,
We never, while the earth abides, might lose the heart of hearts,
That thrills the soul with many a dream, whose magic ne'er departs.
If the evil world would render e'er the tribute that is due,
We never, while the earth abides, might lose the heart of hearts,
That thrills the soul with many a dream, whose magic ne'er departs.
Woe to the proud and daring soul that spurns the chains of earth!
Woe to the child of genius from his fatal hour of birth!
His struggles are with the low—his triumphs are his doom,
And the only fires that light him on are the watchlights of the tomb!
Woe to the child of genius from his fatal hour of birth!
His struggles are with the low—his triumphs are his doom,
And the only fires that light him on are the watchlights of the tomb!
Farewell to all that ever gave my earlier being bliss!
Let me pass away to other worlds who am so sad in this!
If the soul that is my torture now, in the far, far heaven can live,
Then adieu fore'er to all below, for I would not here survive!
Let me pass away to other worlds who am so sad in this!
If the soul that is my torture now, in the far, far heaven can live,
Then adieu fore'er to all below, for I would not here survive!
We breathe in bondage but to bear the ills we never wrought,
And to cast among a mocking world the holiest gems of thought:
The madness and the misery, that await us from our birth,
Are but heralds sent from God to wing us from the earth!
And to cast among a mocking world the holiest gems of thought:
The madness and the misery, that await us from our birth,
Are but heralds sent from God to wing us from the earth!
| The poems and prose writings of Sumner Lincoln Fairfield | |