 | The select poems of Dr. Thomas Dunn English (exclusive of the "Battle lyrics") |  |
THE END OF IT ALL.
Alone in this chamber, this low, naked room
Where the lamplight, low flickering, deepens the gloom,
This pallet of straw, and yon rickety chair,
This squalor that matches the wretch's despair,
Are things nicely fitted to want and disease—
My once vast possessions have shrunk into these.
Where the lamplight, low flickering, deepens the gloom,
This pallet of straw, and yon rickety chair,
This squalor that matches the wretch's despair,
Are things nicely fitted to want and disease—
My once vast possessions have shrunk into these.
And this is the end of a lifetime—yet, see!
A part of the past floats in shadow to me;
The shadow takes form—metamorphosis strange!
The wretchedness round finds a marvellous change!
Boon comrades come back, and they bring as I lie
Sweet sounds to my ear, and bright lights to my eye.
A part of the past floats in shadow to me;
The shadow takes form—metamorphosis strange!
The wretchedness round finds a marvellous change!
Boon comrades come back, and they bring as I lie
Sweet sounds to my ear, and bright lights to my eye.
Light, music, and flowers! How it sounds! how they glare!
Long-parted companions sit here and sit there.
Welcome each to his place! Fill each glass to the brim,
Hold it up to the light, and then drain it to him
Who started before me new paths to essay,
And died, just a twelvemonth ago to a day.
Long-parted companions sit here and sit there.
Welcome each to his place! Fill each glass to the brim,
Hold it up to the light, and then drain it to him
Who started before me new paths to essay,
And died, just a twelvemonth ago to a day.
The best of good fellows, true, manly, and just,
Whose name is a memory, whose body is dust,
To the duty of friendship he ever was true,
He never fawned on me, nor flattered like you;
He could censure my faults, at my vices could frown—
When he died, my last ship on life's ocean went down.
Whose name is a memory, whose body is dust,
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He never fawned on me, nor flattered like you;
He could censure my faults, at my vices could frown—
When he died, my last ship on life's ocean went down.
His birthday—ah, no! 'Tis the day a man dies,
Not the day of his birth, that is kept by the wise;
For life is a prison with fetters and gloom,
And the doorway to freedom is found in the Tomb;
And 'tis pleasant to know of the friends that we love,
That their death-hour below is their birth-hour above.
Not the day of his birth, that is kept by the wise;
For life is a prison with fetters and gloom,
And the doorway to freedom is found in the Tomb;
And 'tis pleasant to know of the friends that we love,
That their death-hour below is their birth-hour above.
Fill again! fill again! while my voice chokes a sigh,
And the smile on my lip mocks the tear in my eye;
Sweet the memory and sad, for the past years are seven
Since my Bonnibel left me one morning for heaven.
Sweet wife of my bosom, whose shape I recall—
Tears fall in the cup—'tis from rapture they fall.
And the smile on my lip mocks the tear in my eye;
Sweet the memory and sad, for the past years are seven
Since my Bonnibel left me one morning for heaven.
Sweet wife of my bosom, whose shape I recall—
Tears fall in the cup—'tis from rapture they fall.
Who says that I killed her? Alas, it is true—
Or was it my madness my comforter slew?
Though conscience still scourges with fetters and whips,
No word of reproach ever fell from her lips;
But in that last moment, she lay on my breast,
Gave a smile, and forgave me, then passed to her rest.
Or was it my madness my comforter slew?
Though conscience still scourges with fetters and whips,
No word of reproach ever fell from her lips;
But in that last moment, she lay on my breast,
Gave a smile, and forgave me, then passed to her rest.
How sparkles the wine in its amber-hued light!—
What folly! what madness! no revel to-night;
In this bare, squalid chamber no banquet is spread,
No ribald oblation is poured for the dead;
Around me lie scattered the wrecks of my years,
And I am alone with remorse, and these tears.
What folly! what madness! no revel to-night;
In this bare, squalid chamber no banquet is spread,
No ribald oblation is poured for the dead;
Around me lie scattered the wrecks of my years,
And I am alone with remorse, and these tears.
The death-throe that racked me my memory stirred;
Fever-born were the songs and the laughter I heard;
Those who fawned and who flattered and fed at my cost,
Left to never return when my fortune was lost;
The penniless spendthrift lies here with no friend,
His life passed in revel—and this is the end.
Fever-born were the songs and the laughter I heard;
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Left to never return when my fortune was lost;
The penniless spendthrift lies here with no friend,
His life passed in revel—and this is the end.
| The select poems of Dr. Thomas Dunn English (exclusive of the "Battle lyrics") | |