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120 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF |
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Till, spent with toil, dreeing death for others,
And some whose hands should have wrought for him (If children live not for sires and mothers), His mind grew dim. |
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And he fell far through that pit abysmal,
The gulf and grave of Maginn and Burns, And pawned his soul for the Devil's dismal Stock of returns. |
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But yet redeemed it in days of darkness,
And shapes and signs of the final wrath, When death, in hideous and ghastly starkness, Stood in his path. |
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And tell how now, amid wreck and sorrow,
And want, and sickness, and houseless nights, He bides in calmness the silent morrow That no ray lights.
And lives he still, then ? Yes ! Old and hoary
At thirty-nine, from despair and woe, He lives, enduring what future story Will never know. |
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Him grant a grave to, ye pitying noble,
Deep in your bosoms ! There let him dwell! He, too, had tears for all souls in trouble, Here and in hell. |
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