Nor toward what place, nor to what end of all.—
Men carry a corpse thus,—past the doorway, past
The garden-gate, the children’s playground, up
The green lane,—then they leave it in the pit,
To sleep and find corruption, cheek to cheek
With him who stinks since Friday.
‘But suppose;
To go down with one’s soul into the grave,—
To go down half dead, half alive, I say,
And wake up with corruption, . . cheek to cheek
With him who stinks since Friday! There it is,
And that’s the horror of’t, Miss Leigh.
‘You feel?
You understand?—no, do not look at me,
But understand. The blank, blind, weary way,
Which led . . where’er it led . . away at least;
The shifted ship . . to Sydney or to France . .
Still bound, wherever else, to another land;
The swooning sickness on the dismal sea,
The foreign shore, the shameful house, the night,
The feeble blood, the heavy-headed grief, . .
No need to bring their damnable drugged cup,
And yet they brought it! Hell’s so prodigal
Of devil’s gifts . . hunts liberally in packs,
Will kill no poor small creature of the wilds
But fifty red wide throats must smoke at it,
As HIS at me . . when waking up at last . .
I told you that I waked up in the grave.
‘Enough so!—it is plain enough so. True,
