THE DYING VISION OF BENEDICT ARNOLD 249
But no ! I must not feel man's wrath ;
My fate is more forlorn ; Each hastes in horror from my path,
Or stares in silent scorn ; And, if a soldier meets my glance, He turns his back as I advance.
��If to my thoughts for peace I fly,
Still peace and I must part ; A hungry worm that will not die
Is gnawing at my heart ; And conscience' self proclaims my ban, Forever whispering, " Thou'rt the man ! "
When quiet night outspreads her wings,
I blush beneath the moon ; Refreshing morn no solace brings,
Nor the bright blaze of noon. The very sun, as if in wrath. Frowns like a shadow on my path.
Scarce do I deem, when I am dead,
I shall escape despair ; If in the grave I make my bed,
Can there be peace even there For one with whom the good, the just. Deign not to mingle even in dust .-'
Were there but hope to die unknown —
That, when the sexton's hand Placed o'er my grave a nameless stone,
I, in the stranger's land, Might thus, even though by stealth, be sure To moulder 'mongst the good and pure !
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