And hear thy sweet “my father!” from those dumb
And cold lips, Absalom!
But death is on thee! I shall hear the gush
Of music, and the voices of the young;
And life will pass me in the mantling blush,
And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung;—
But thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shalt come
To meet me, Absalom!
And oh! when I am stricken, and my heart,
Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken,