 | The Solitary, and other poems |  |
Soft! he revives. “Now hear me, Brooke,”
Said Kirke, and on his bosom strook,
“I saw him, and the sight hath dried
My blood, and now what may betide
I care not:—he is dead and gone;
Be this engraven on thy stone.
Poor knave! he died before his hour;
I bring his wife for a fresh dower.
The law comes for us; I can smell
The dogs are nigh, and hear their yell;
I go my journey—so farewell!”
Said Kirke, and on his bosom strook,
“I saw him, and the sight hath dried
My blood, and now what may betide
I care not:—he is dead and gone;
Be this engraven on thy stone.
Poor knave! he died before his hour;
I bring his wife for a fresh dower.
142
The dogs are nigh, and hear their yell;
I go my journey—so farewell!”
| The Solitary, and other poems | |