But does the robed priest for his pity falter? A thousand lives were perishing in thine "Hereafter'! Ay-hereafter! A whip to keep a coward to his track! Come from the grave to-morrow with that story 'No, no, old man! we die Even as the flowers, and we shall breathe away For when that bloodshot quivering is o'er, 'Yet there's a deathless name! A spirit that the smothering vault shall spurn, And like a steadfast planet mount and burn And though its crown of flame Consumed my brain to ashes as it shone, By all the fiery stars! I'd bind it on! - 'Ay-though it bid me rifle My heart's last fount for its insatiate thirst- The yearning in my throat for my sweet child, 'All I would do it all— Sooner than die, like a dull worm, to rot Thrust foully into earth to be forgot! Oh heavens !- but I appal Your heart, old man! forgive-ha! on your lives "Vain - vain - give o'er! His eye Glazes apace. He does not feel you now Stand back! I'll paint the death dew on his brow! Gods! if he do not die But for one moment - one-till I eclipse Shivering! Hark! he mutters Brokenly now - that was a difficult breath - Is his heart still? Aha! lift up his head! He shudders-gasps-Jove help him!-so-he's dead.' THE BELFRY PIGEON. ON the cross-beam under the Old South bell The nest of a pigeon is builded well. In summer and winter that bird is there, 'Tis a bird I love, with its brooding note, Whatever is rung on that noisy bell- The dove in the belfry must hear it well. When the tongue swings out to the midnight moonWhen the sexton cheerly rings for noon When the clock strikes clear at morning light- When the chimes play soft in the Sabbath air, Filling the spirit with tones of prayer Sweet bird! I would that I could be I tread, like thee, the crowded street; But, unlike me, when day is o'er, TIRED OF PLAY. TO A PICTURE OF A CHILD AT PLAY. TIRED of play! Tired of play! The sun is creeping up steeple and tree; How hast thou spent it restless one? Playing! But what hast thou done beside What promise of morn is left unbroken? There will come an eve to a longer day, With drooping limbs and aching brow, Well were it then if thine aching brow Were as free from sin and shame as now! |