RELEASE.
He fears to die who knows not how to live,
For Death is friendly, shaping to an end
The woeful accidents which fate doth blend
With high success, to fairer fortunes give;
Who for this close would ask alternative
Unto a further lease of earth to lend
His soul, and clip the wings that would ascend
To God, the source of life infinitive?
Look at the parable of things—the sun
Must some day out—the fairest blossoms die—
Sweet-throated songsters cease their minstrelsy—
And Nature endeth all she hath begun.
So fear ye not to meet the great release,
For direst storms dissolve in lasting peace.
THE WHIP-POOR-WILL!
When early shades of evening’s close
The air with solemn darkness fill,
Before the moonlight softly throws
Its fairy mantle o’er the hill,
A sad sound goes
In plaintive thrill;
Who hears it knows
The Whip-poor-will.
The Nightingale unto the rose
Its tale of love may fondly trill;
No love-tale this—’tis grief that flows
With pain that never can be still,
The sad sound goes
In plaintive thrill;
Who hears it knows
The Whip-poor-will.
Repeated oft, it never grows
Familiar; but is sadder still,
As though a spirit sought repose
From some pursuing, endless ill,
The sad sound goes
In plaintive thrill;
Who hears it knows
The Whip-poor-will.