312 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE
No base dependants shall embrace,
Nor brew with pungent drugs mock tears; No canting priest, with lengthening face, Shall preach of the soul's hopeless case To dying ears,
Nor bustling relatives draw nigh. To shrug with simulated dread. Or, with false tongue and long-drawn sigh, Exclaim, " Pray God he may not die ! " Yet wish him dead.
And, when life's worn and crazy mill
Hath shut her gate and slacked her wheel, No curious throngs the house shall fill, To hear the reading of his will. Longing to steal.
No funeral guests the train shall swell. To bear him back to nature's womb, 'Midst tramp of feet and toll of bell ; Nor in rich garments shall he dwell In a foul tomb.
But midst these hills and forests wild His aged eyes in peace shall close ; Death shall approach with manner mild, And take him as one bears a child To sweet repose.
And, while his shroud pale winter weaves.
Summer with showers his limbs shall lave; Autumn shall pile in graceful sheaves Her wealth of many-colored leaves, To grace his grave.
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