THE DYING PHILOSOPHER.
I have crept forth to die among the trees,
They have sweet voices that I love to hear,
Sweet, lute-like voices. They have been as friends
In my adversity—when sick and faint
I stretched me in their shadow all day long;
They were not weary of me. They sent down
Soft summer breezes fraught with pitying sighs
To fan my blanching cheek. Their lofty boughs
Pointed with thousand fingers to the sky,
And round their trunks the wild vine fondly clung,
Nursing her clusters, and they did not check
Her clasping tendrils, nor deceive her trust,
Nor blight her blossoms, and go towering up
In their cold stateliness, while on the earth
She sank to die.
But thou, rejoicing bird,
Why pourest thou such a rich and mellow lay
On my dull ear? Poor bird!—I gave thee crumbs,
And fed thy nested little ones; so thou
(Unlike to man!) thou dost remember it.
O mine own race!—how often have ye sate
Gathered around my table, shared my cup,
And worn my raiment, yea! far more than this,
Been sheltered in my bosom, but to turn
And lift the heel against me, and cast out
My bleeding heart in morsels to the world,
Like catering cannibals.
