Poems.
135
SONG OF DEATH.
I come in the silent midnight hour,
Ye know me not till ye feel my power;
At morning's blush, ere the dew hath passed,
I come, and ye quail beneath my blast.
At noon-tide heat, at the setting sun,
I call for my trophies one by one.
In the twilight dim, or evening shade,
At every hour are my visits made.
Ye dread my approach, and shrink with fear,
When least expected, ye find me here.
Ye know me not till ye feel my power;
At morning's blush, ere the dew hath passed,
I come, and ye quail beneath my blast.
At noon-tide heat, at the setting sun,
I call for my trophies one by one.
In the twilight dim, or evening shade,
At every hour are my visits made.
Ye dread my approach, and shrink with fear,
When least expected, ye find me here.
I breathe on the child at its mother's breast,
And take it away to my silent rest.
The maiden I loose from her lover's side,
And call her far hence for my own pale bride.
On the bending form of the silvery head,
I look, and the spirit away hath sped.'
Whoever I touch with my withering breath,
Are summoned away to the halls of Death.
The fondest ties upon earth I sever,
And here they meet not again forever.
And take it away to my silent rest.
The maiden I loose from her lover's side,
And call her far hence for my own pale bride.
On the bending form of the silvery head,
I look, and the spirit away hath sped.'
Whoever I touch with my withering breath,
Are summoned away to the halls of Death.
The fondest ties upon earth I sever,
And here they meet not again forever.
My quiver is full, and my bow is bent,
My arrow speeds with a good intent;
My arrow speeds with a good intent;
