 | Sonnets and Other Poems |  |
77
A PROTEST.
‘Whom the gods love, dies young’—Oh, say not so!Thou art a father—can the cruel word
Lodge in thy breast or from thy lips be heard?
Let the young live, ye awful Powers, and know,
Ere they pass hence, the savour of that best
Of fruit that grows upon the tree of life—
The happy home, the love of child and wife—
And, working with their fellows, earn their rest.
The old must go, and others fill their room;
So is the blood of the world re-vivified.
But ah! 'tis piteous when a father stands
O'er his dead son, and holds the pulseless hands,
Or mother for her daughter must provide
Not marriage robes, but garments of the tomb.
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