 | The Poetical Works of the Rev. George Croly |  |
XLV.
'Tis open!—Never fails its sight of woe!And crowds are rushing to that fearful dome,
And crowds are scattering out, subdued and slow;
They've seen,—to what complexion life may come.
'Tis narrow as the grave, a house of gloom:
And on the wall, with ouze and blood long dyed,
Are hung a spangled robe, a broken plume,
Dropping, as fresh-drawn from the river tide,
And cold beneath them lies—the lost!—the suicide!
| The Poetical Works of the Rev. George Croly | |