“I’ll kiss away the darkness,
“My Henry, from thine eyes;
“The angels shalt thou see then,
“The glory of the skies.”
I cannot rise, my darling,
The wound is bleeding yet,
Made by thee in my bosom
With one sharp word and threat.
“My hand all gently, Henry,
“I’ll lay upon thy heart;
“It then will bleed no longer,
“And heal’d will be the smart.”
I cannot rise, my darling,
My head still bleeds amain!
’Twas there the bullet enter’d,
When thou wert from me ta’en.
“With my long tresses, Henry,
“I’ll stanch the bleeding wound,
“And drive the blood-stream backwards,
“And make thy head thus sound.”
So gently, sweetly pray’d she,
I could not spurn her prayer;
I sought to rise and hasten
To join my mistress fair.
Then all my wounds ’gan bleeding,
Then, wildly rushing, broke
From head and breast the bloodstream,
And lo!—from sleep I woke.
70.
The numbers old and evil,
The dreams so harrowing,
Let’s bury all together,—
A mighty coffin bring!