 | The American common-place book of poetry |  |
The Consumptive.—Rockingham Gazette.
No, never more—my setting sun
Hath sunk his evening rays;
And this poor heart is nearly done
With hope of better days.
I feel it in the clay-cold hand,
The hard and fast expiring breath;
For now, so near the tomb I stand,
I breathe the chilling airs of death.
Hath sunk his evening rays;
And this poor heart is nearly done
With hope of better days.
I feel it in the clay-cold hand,
The hard and fast expiring breath;
For now, so near the tomb I stand,
I breathe the chilling airs of death.
No, never more—it all is vain—
But O, how Memory leans
To see, and hear, and feel again
Its youth-inspiring scenes!
And deep the sigh that Memory heaves,
When, one by one, they all are fled,
As autumn gales on yellow leaves,
That wither on their woodland bed.
But O, how Memory leans
To see, and hear, and feel again
Its youth-inspiring scenes!
And deep the sigh that Memory heaves,
When, one by one, they all are fled,
As autumn gales on yellow leaves,
That wither on their woodland bed.
No, never more—I may not view
The summer vale and hill,
The glorious heaven, the ocean's blue,
The forests, dark and still—
The evening's beauty, once so dear,
That bears the glowing thoughts above,
When nature seems to breathe and hear
The voiceless eloquence of love.
The summer vale and hill,
The glorious heaven, the ocean's blue,
The forests, dark and still—
The evening's beauty, once so dear,
That bears the glowing thoughts above,
When nature seems to breathe and hear
The voiceless eloquence of love.
No, never more—when prisoners wait
The death-call to their doom,
And see, beyond their dungeon gate,
The scaffold and the tomb,
On the fair earth and sun-bright heaven,
Their gaze how fervently they cast!
So death to life a charm hath given,
And made it loveliest at the last.
The death-call to their doom,
289
The scaffold and the tomb,
On the fair earth and sun-bright heaven,
Their gaze how fervently they cast!
So death to life a charm hath given,
And made it loveliest at the last.
No, never more—and now, farewell!
The bitter word is said;
And soon, above my green-roofed cell
The careless foot will tread.
My heart hath found its rest above;
The cares of earth are passing by;
And, O, it is a voice of love,
That whispers—It is time to die!
The bitter word is said;
And soon, above my green-roofed cell
The careless foot will tread.
My heart hath found its rest above;
The cares of earth are passing by;
And, O, it is a voice of love,
That whispers—It is time to die!
| The American common-place book of poetry | |