Nor, cruel as it seemed, could he He long survives, who lives an hour And so long he, with unspent power, At length, his transient respite past, No poet wept him; but the page Of narrative sincere, That tells his name, his worth, his age, And tears by bards or heroes shed I therefore purpose not, or dream, To give the melancholy theme But misery still delights to trace No voice divine the storm allayed, No light propitious shone, When, snatched from all effectual aid, We perished, each alone: But I beneath a rougher sea, bleed To work the woe of any living thing, From matter's base encumbering weed? Or dost thou, hid from sight, Wait, like some spell-bound knight, Through blank oblivious years th' appointed hour To break thy trance and reassume thy power? 20 Yet canst thou without thought or feeling be? O say, what art thou, when no more thou'rt thee? Life! we have been long together, Through pleasant and through cloudy weather; 'Tis hard to part when friends are dear; Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear; Then steal away, give little warning, Choose thine own time; Say not Good-night, but in some brighter clime Bid me Good-morning! 30 |