 | The book of the dead |  |
70
[XXXII. I know not to what hearts I speak]
I know not to what hearts I speak;
Perchance, to common, human ones;
Or humble hearts, hearts very meek,
Through which the general current runs.
Perchance, to common, human ones;
Or humble hearts, hearts very meek,
Through which the general current runs.
Of him, the lowest of them all,
I ask in tones to suit his ear,
In bated breath, with dying fall
Made tremulous by ghastly fear;—
I ask in tones to suit his ear,
In bated breath, with dying fall
Made tremulous by ghastly fear;—
I ask, I say, this timid heart,
If your beloved were cold in death,
And o'er his sacred bier the mart
Should blow its sacrilegious breath;—
If your beloved were cold in death,
And o'er his sacred bier the mart
Should blow its sacrilegious breath;—
Each greasy huckster, dropping trade,
Should near the speechless body crowd,
And, by its silence venturous made,
Should spurn the dead man in his shroud;—
Should near the speechless body crowd,
And, by its silence venturous made,
Should spurn the dead man in his shroud;—
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And brawl, and lie, and call him foul,
And spit their rancorous bane about,
Until your faint and stricken soul
Revolted at the general shout;
And spit their rancorous bane about,
Until your faint and stricken soul
Revolted at the general shout;
And, stunned with horror, you recoiled,
In mute amazement, shocked to see
The man, you held most pure, so soiled
With their abhorrent blasphemy;—
In mute amazement, shocked to see
The man, you held most pure, so soiled
With their abhorrent blasphemy;—
O feeble soul, would you retire?
Would you, submissive, cringe and bow?
I answer, flaming into ire,
You'd smite the miscreants on the brow!
Would you, submissive, cringe and bow?
I answer, flaming into ire,
You'd smite the miscreants on the brow!
| The book of the dead | |