 | The select poems of Dr. Thomas Dunn English (exclusive of the "Battle lyrics") |  |
646
ALL DEAD.
The room is cheerless, chill, and dark;
One candle on the mantel placed,
Within the grate a smouldering spark—
Coal costs too much—want comes from waste.
Yonder the pallet woos my frame;
But slumber from my eyes has fled,
And Peter Garnett—that's my name—
Sits, breathes, and yet the man is dead.
One candle on the mantel placed,
Within the grate a smouldering spark—
Coal costs too much—want comes from waste.
Yonder the pallet woos my frame;
But slumber from my eyes has fled,
And Peter Garnett—that's my name—
Sits, breathes, and yet the man is dead.
I'm ninety-two—but that's not old—
My hundredth year I yet might see;
They say I only love my gold—
Why not? What else is left for me?
I had a wife and children twain,
Born ere my manhood had been sped:
I had a friend—ah, never again!
Wife, children, friend, they all are dead.
My hundredth year I yet might see;
They say I only love my gold—
Why not? What else is left for me?
I had a wife and children twain,
Born ere my manhood had been sped:
I had a friend—ah, never again!
Wife, children, friend, they all are dead.
There was my wife—ah, let me see—
I married Mary Bond, you know;
She died when I was thirty-three—
That's nearly sixty years ago.
Mary—a blessed name they say—
The Magdalen had it—we were wed—
How can one's self, one's self betray?
And yet she left me—she is dead.
I married Mary Bond, you know;
She died when I was thirty-three—
That's nearly sixty years ago.
Mary—a blessed name they say—
The Magdalen had it—we were wed—
How can one's self, one's self betray?
And yet she left me—she is dead.
A friend—I thought I had one gained,
In manner frank, in language fair;
I learned that friendship might be feigned,
That words were only stricken air.
He was my idol—I had trust
In everything he did or said;
The idol shivered into dust
One day—he did it—he is dead.
In manner frank, in language fair;
I learned that friendship might be feigned,
That words were only stricken air.
647
In everything he did or said;
The idol shivered into dust
One day—he did it—he is dead.
And children—Nelly, at my knee,
So fair, so loving—could I fear
She might be ever lost to me,
Think on me less, be held less dear?
Her husband was a boor—a wretch;
The love she sought grew hate instead;
No child of hers survives to fetch
Her features back—and she is dead.
So fair, so loving—could I fear
She might be ever lost to me,
Think on me less, be held less dear?
Her husband was a boor—a wretch;
The love she sought grew hate instead;
No child of hers survives to fetch
Her features back—and she is dead.
My son—a proper boy was John—
Made money—he was born to thrive;
Keen as his father—he is gone;
He died last year at sixty-five.
Riches were born of thrift and care;
My long life was his only dread;
And yet his father was his heir—
He never married; he is dead.
Made money—he was born to thrive;
Keen as his father—he is gone;
He died last year at sixty-five.
Riches were born of thrift and care;
My long life was his only dread;
And yet his father was his heir—
He never married; he is dead.
A wife! why, that's my store of gold;
A friend! long rows of houses tall;
My children! they're the lands I hold—
My riches have outlived them all.
I hoard—I have no heirs who'd strive
To clip the old man's slender thread;
The wealth around me is alive,
But he who scraped it up is dead.
A friend! long rows of houses tall;
My children! they're the lands I hold—
My riches have outlived them all.
I hoard—I have no heirs who'd strive
To clip the old man's slender thread;
The wealth around me is alive,
But he who scraped it up is dead.
Hark! what's that noise? I surely dozed.
Ah! there's some bonds not put away—
Palsied my limbs—yon chest not closed—
Some thief by chance this way might stray.
The fire is out, my hand is numb;
The candle flickers—is that a tread?
Who's there? Speak, stranger! are you dumb?
Nothing. I cannot stir. All dead.
Ah! there's some bonds not put away—
648
Some thief by chance this way might stray.
The fire is out, my hand is numb;
The candle flickers—is that a tread?
Who's there? Speak, stranger! are you dumb?
Nothing. I cannot stir. All dead.
| The select poems of Dr. Thomas Dunn English (exclusive of the "Battle lyrics") | |