242
CATHAIR FARGUS.
Gone—gone. Uncounted æons have rolled by,
And still my ghost sits by its corpse of stone,
And still the blue smile of the new-formed sky
Finds me unchanged. Slow centuries crawling on
Bring myriads happy death:—I cannot die.
And still my ghost sits by its corpse of stone,
And still the blue smile of the new-formed sky
Finds me unchanged. Slow centuries crawling on
Bring myriads happy death:—I cannot die.
My stone shape mocks the dead man's peaceful face,
And straightened arm that will not labor more;
And yet I yearn for a mean six-foot space
To moulder in, with daisies growing o'er,
Rather than this unearthly resting-place;—
And straightened arm that will not labor more;
And yet I yearn for a mean six-foot space
To moulder in, with daisies growing o'er,
Rather than this unearthly resting-place;—
Where pinnacled, my silent effigy
Against the sunset rising clear and cold,
Startles the musing stranger sailing by,
And calls up thoughts that never can be told,
Of life, and death, and immortality.
Against the sunset rising clear and cold,
Startles the musing stranger sailing by,
And calls up thoughts that never can be told,
Of life, and death, and immortality.
While I?—I watch this after world that creeps
Nearer and nearer to the feet of God:
Ay, though it labors, struggles, sins, and weeps,
Yet, love-drawn, follows ever Him who trod
Through dim Gethsemane to Cavalry's steeps.
Nearer and nearer to the feet of God:
Ay, though it labors, struggles, sins, and weeps,
Yet, love-drawn, follows ever Him who trod
Through dim Gethsemane to Cavalry's steeps.
O glorious shame! O royal servitude!
High lowliness, and ignorance all-wise!
High lowliness, and ignorance all-wise!
