Of the baying hound, or worse, of the death-rhymed Irish rat.
But my mother, darling mother! old Pythagoras was wrong,
For the death-howl dies away, and I hear the angel-song.
—Yet, I’ve heard that death-howl, mother, and I know I’ll die to-night—
And the room is filling, filling with a strange, unearthly light!
Oh that glorious sight out yonder in the vast eternity
Where the light and song are leading—come! oh come and go with me!
Dearest mother, mother, mother! what a joyous, joyous sight!
Each glad soul as life has dreamed it clad in purest angel-white!
The death-howl’s died away, dear mother,—and I’m dying now to-night!—