O, it is sad that aught so mild
Should bind the soul with bands of fear;
That strains to soothe a little child
The man should dread to hear!
But sin hath broke the world's sweet peace, unstrung
The harmonious chords to which the angels sung.
* * * * *
But he no more shall haunt the beach,
Nor sit upon the tall cliff's crown,
Nor go the round of all that reach,
Nor feebly sit him down,
Watching the swaying weeds; another day,
And he'll have gone far hence that dreadful way.
To-night the charméd number's told.
"Twice have I come for thee," it said.
"Once more, and none shall thee behold.
Come, live one, to the dead!"
So hears his soul, and fears the coming night,
Yet sick and weary of the soft, calm light.
Again he sits within that room;
All day he leans at that still board;
None to bring comfort to his gloom,
Or speak a friendly word.
Weakened with fear, lone, haunted by remorse,
Poor, shattered wretch, there waits he that pale horse.
* * * * *
=Richard Henry Wilde, 1789-.= (Manual, pp. 521, 501.)
=330.= MY LIFE IS LIKE THE SUMMER ROSE.
My life is like the summer rose
That opens to the morning sky,
But, ere the shades of evening close,
Is scattered on the ground to die;
Yet on that rose's humble bed
The softest dews, of night are shed,
As if she wept such waste to see;
But none shall drop a tear for me.
My life is like the autumn leaf
That trembles in the moon's pale ray;
Its hold is frail, its state is brief,
Restless, and soon to pass away;
But when that leaf shall fall and fade,
The parent tree will mourn its shade,
The winds bewail the leafless tree;
But none shall breathe a sigh, for me.