 | Melaia and other poems |  |
214
THE LAST LOOK.
Long, long had he waned from life, but now
Strange faintness drain'd his breath;
An icy paleness stole to his brow—
The shadow of coming death.
He gazed around the little room
Where his happiest hours had been spent,
Conning the page of poet and sage,
Or holding merriment:
He felt he was dying, and calmly took
A sad, a long, last farewell look.
Strange faintness drain'd his breath;
An icy paleness stole to his brow—
The shadow of coming death.
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Where his happiest hours had been spent,
Conning the page of poet and sage,
Or holding merriment:
He felt he was dying, and calmly took
A sad, a long, last farewell look.
He threw a glance on all he prized—
A glance that was glazing and dim:
He mark'd the lute unstrung and mute,
To be woke no more by him:
He dwelt where the precious volumes lay—
Those treasures of pure delight,
That had charm'd away the lonely day,
And solaced the sleepless night—
Cherish'd till they had form'd a part
Of idols closest to his heart.
A glance that was glazing and dim:
He mark'd the lute unstrung and mute,
To be woke no more by him:
He dwelt where the precious volumes lay—
Those treasures of pure delight,
That had charm'd away the lonely day,
And solaced the sleepless night—
Cherish'd till they had form'd a part
Of idols closest to his heart.
He raised his eye, with a gentle sigh,
To the picture-blazon'd wall,
And his father's portrait met him there,
The dearest thing of all!
He fix'd his gaze, and a tremour pass'd,
Betraying some sudden pain:
His dark lids fell; that look was the last!
He raised them not again:
He gasp'd, and murmur'd falteringly,
“Tis o'er; now lead me forth to die!”
To the picture-blazon'd wall,
And his father's portrait met him there,
The dearest thing of all!
He fix'd his gaze, and a tremour pass'd,
Betraying some sudden pain:
His dark lids fell; that look was the last!
He raised them not again:
He gasp'd, and murmur'd falteringly,
“Tis o'er; now lead me forth to die!”
But the sand was out, his drooping head
Sunk heavily on his breast;
The chord had snapp'd, and his soul had fled
Where “the weary are at rest!”
Years have gone by, but memory still
E'er yields to his spirit's claim;
My cheek will whiten, my eye will fill,
To hear his whisper'd name;
For the moment passes when he took
His last, that long, that dying look.
Sunk heavily on his breast;
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Where “the weary are at rest!”
Years have gone by, but memory still
E'er yields to his spirit's claim;
My cheek will whiten, my eye will fill,
To hear his whisper'd name;
For the moment passes when he took
His last, that long, that dying look.
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