But takes thy noblest self to other climes

{46}

And leaves thee to the scythe. Complain not! Mourn not!

Long not to live another day, when thou

Art called, but bow thy head without a sigh,

In gentle acquiescence, sentinel!

{47}

{47}

 LETHE

WHEN dark thy childhood, tears and grief have filled

W

Thy swelling heart, that understood too much,

Yet not enough to be forgiving, when

The sun was pale, and darkness lonely, when

The fear of unknown evil made thy lips

Turn cold, and wonder changed to horror, then

To dumb despair, to childhood's hopelessness,

More hopeless than old age's iron clutch

Of unbelief, the shadow of the past

Will cast a pall o'er all thy life, then say:

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