 | The Solitary, and other poems |  |
“Thou may'st be sav'd;
My stone waits but to be engrav'd;
'Tis hewn and shap'd: my life is nought:
Stay! let a scrivener be brought:
Thou dost my bidding? be but true;
My will shall leave no cause to rue.”
Kirke did not hasten thence—he flew.
My stone waits but to be engrav'd;
'Tis hewn and shap'd: my life is nought:
Stay! let a scrivener be brought:
Thou dost my bidding? be but true;
My will shall leave no cause to rue.”
Kirke did not hasten thence—he flew.
| The Solitary, and other poems | |