their common weal and care, And they turned from her and denied, and sware They did not know this woman nor her name. And they took truce with tyrants and grew tame, And gathered up cast crowns and creeds to wear, And rags and shards regilded. Then she took In her bruised hands their broken pledge, and eyed These men so late so loud upon her side With one inevitable and tearless look, That they might see her face whom they forsook; And they beheld what they had left, and died. February 1870. 

      XII INTERCESSION Ave Caesar Imperator, moriturum te saluto. 1       O Death, a little more, and then the worm; A little longer, O Death, a little yet, Before the grave gape and the grave-worm fret; Before the sanguine-spotted hand infirm Be rottenness, and that foul brain, the germ Of all ill things and thoughts, be stopped and set; A little while, O Death, ere he forget, A small space more of life, a little term; A little longer ere he and thou be met, Ere in that hand that fed thee to thy mind The poison-cup of life be overset; A little respite of disastrous breath, Till the soul lift up her lost eyes, and find Nor God nor help nor hope, but thee, O Death. 

      2 Shall a man die before his dying day, Death? and for him though the utter day be nigh, Not yet, not yet we give him leave to die; We give him grace not yet that men should say He is dead, wiped out, perished and past away. Till the last bitterness of life go by, Thou shalt not slay him; till those last dregs run dry, O thou last lord of life! thou shalt not slay. Let the lips live a little while and lie, The hand a little, and falter, and fail of strength, And the soul shudder and sicken at the sky; Yea, let him live, though God nor man would let Save for the curse' sake; then at bitter length,          Lord, will we yield him to thee, but not yet. 

      3 Hath he not deeds to do and days to see Yet ere the day that is to see him dead? Beats there no brain yet in the poisonous head, Throbs there no treason? if no such thing there be, If no such thought, surely this is not he. Look to the hands then; are the hands not red? What are the shadows about this man's bed? Death, was not this the cupbearer to thee? Nay, let him live then, till in this life's stead Even he shall pray for that thou hast to give; Till seeing his hopes and not his memories fled Even he shall cry 

 Prev. P 24/28 next