I check'd him while he spoke; yet, could he speak,
Alas! I would not check.
For reasons not to love him once I sought,
And wearied all my thought
To vex myself and him: I now would give
My love could he but live
Who lately lived for me, and when he found
'T was vain, in holy ground
He hid his face amid the shades of death!
I waste for him my breath
Who wasted his for me! but mine returns,
And this loin bosom burns
With stifling heat, heaving it up in sleep,
And waking me to weep
Tears that had melted his soft heart. For years
Wept he as bitter tears!
MERCIFUL GOD! such was his latest prayer,
THESE MAY SHE NEVER SHARE!
Quieter is his breath, his breast more cold,
Than daisies in the mould,
Where children spell, athwart the churchyard gate,
His name and life's brief date.
Pray for him, gentle souls, whoe'er you be,
And, oh! pray too for me!"
Sir Thomas had fallen into a most comfortable and refreshing slumber
ere this lecture was concluded; but the pause broke it, as there be
many who experience after the evening service in our parish-church.
Howbeit, he had presently all his wits about him, and remembered
well that he had been carefully counting the syllables, about the
time when I had pierced as far as into the middle.
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