Festus |
Let years crowd on, and age bow down
My body to the earth which gave,
As yon grey, worn out, crumbling stone
Dips o’er the grave!
What, though for m no music thrill,
Nor mirth delight, nor beauty move;
Though the heart stiffen and wax still,
And make no love;
Still, deep and bright, like river gold,
Imbedded here thy love shall lie—
Sun-grains, that with the sands are rolled,
Of memory.
Shall that soul never burst the tomb,
Draped in long robes of living light?
Or, worm-like, alway eat the gloom
And dust of night?
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Lucifer |
Answer—what right to life hath he?
God gives and takes away your breath:
What more have ye?
Breath is your life, and life your soul;
Ye have it warm from His kind hands:
Then yield it back to the great Whole
When He demands.
Why, deathling, wilt thou long for Heaven?
Why seek a bright but blinding way?
Go, thank thy God that He hath given
Night upon day:
Go, thank thy God that thou hast lived,
And ask no more: ’tis all He gave:
’Tis all there needs to be believed—
God and the grave.
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Festus |
For Thee, God, will I save my heart;
For Thee my nature’s honour keep;
Then, soul and body, all or part—
Rest, wake, or sleep!
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