 | The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer |  |
377
WHEN THE WILD LOVE OF FAME.
When the wild love of fame, with its anguish and fever,
No more in my soul kindles withering fire,
And this sensitive bosom is pulseless for ever,
And wrapped are my limbs in their funeral attire,
Bear not my pale relics where thousands are sleeping
In clustering graves near the populous mart—
Where the dew-fall of eve the dark cypress is steeping,
And stones rise in pomp, hewn and polished by art.
No more in my soul kindles withering fire,
And this sensitive bosom is pulseless for ever,
And wrapped are my limbs in their funeral attire,
Bear not my pale relics where thousands are sleeping
In clustering graves near the populous mart—
Where the dew-fall of eve the dark cypress is steeping,
And stones rise in pomp, hewn and polished by art.
Oh! bear my cold corse to the brow of the mountain,
Where cedar and pine groves may over me wave—
Where the day-god may fling from his luminous fountain
A blushing farewell, when he sets, on my grave;—
Where the scream of the panther, while darkness is reigning,
And the long, mournful howl of the wolf may be heard,
And night summon forth, while the sad moon is waning,
From oak-hollowed dwelling her anchorite bird
Where cedar and pine groves may over me wave—
Where the day-god may fling from his luminous fountain
A blushing farewell, when he sets, on my grave;—
Where the scream of the panther, while darkness is reigning,
And the long, mournful howl of the wolf may be heard,
And night summon forth, while the sad moon is waning,
From oak-hollowed dwelling her anchorite bird
A tomb by the deer and the war-eagle haunted
Is meet for a lone one who hateth the crowd;—
A tomb where a dirge for the dead will be chanted
When lightnings flash death and the thunder is loud.
Some friend, from the heat of the stag-chase reposing,
While his indolent hounds flap their ears in the shade,
By the mossed rock of granite rude letters disclosing,
Will know the wild spot where the minstrel is laid.
Is meet for a lone one who hateth the crowd;—
A tomb where a dirge for the dead will be chanted
When lightnings flash death and the thunder is loud.
Some friend, from the heat of the stag-chase reposing,
While his indolent hounds flap their ears in the shade,
By the mossed rock of granite rude letters disclosing,
Will know the wild spot where the minstrel is laid.
| The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer | |