 | The writings of Robert C. Sands |  |
373
ELEGY ON HENRY SLENDER.
And thou art dead! as thin and spare
As mortal form could be;
And frame so lean, and bones so bare
We never more shall see.
Though finished are thine earthly days,
And o'er thy tomb the cow may graze
In rude simplicity—
Still busy memory lingers yet,
Thy well-loved face she can't forget.
As mortal form could be;
And frame so lean, and bones so bare
We never more shall see.
Though finished are thine earthly days,
And o'er thy tomb the cow may graze
In rude simplicity—
Still busy memory lingers yet,
Thy well-loved face she can't forget.
I will not ask where thou liest low,
Because I know full well—
I saw thee to the churchyard go,
I heard thy funeral knell.
They brought thee in thine own wheelbarrow,
And laid thee in thy grave so narrow,
Without a stone to tell
Thy name, thy birth-place, or thy station,
Thy virtues, or thy occupation.
Because I know full well—
I saw thee to the churchyard go,
I heard thy funeral knell.
They brought thee in thine own wheelbarrow,
And laid thee in thy grave so narrow,
Without a stone to tell
Thy name, thy birth-place, or thy station,
Thy virtues, or thy occupation.
I will not ask of what thou died,
Of dropsy or of fever;
Whether thy leg was mortified,
Or out of place thy liver.
It was enough for me to know,
That thou hast gone where all must go,
Must go, alas! for ever—
The when—the how—the why, or wherefore,
I never knew, nor do I care for.
Of dropsy or of fever;
Whether thy leg was mortified,
Or out of place thy liver.
374
That thou hast gone where all must go,
Must go, alas! for ever—
The when—the how—the why, or wherefore,
I never knew, nor do I care for.
And life's short day of joy and sorrow,
Shall never more be thine,
Its stormy nights, its cloudy morrow,
Its darkness or sunshine—
But yet thy name abroad shall ring,
And far and wide shall poets sing
Thy praise in strains divine;
And matrons old, and maidens tender,
Long sigh for thee, young Harry Slender.
Shall never more be thine,
Its stormy nights, its cloudy morrow,
Its darkness or sunshine—
But yet thy name abroad shall ring,
And far and wide shall poets sing
Thy praise in strains divine;
And matrons old, and maidens tender,
Long sigh for thee, young Harry Slender.
| The writings of Robert C. Sands | |