REUBEN
New life, abounded. Pain, grief, age, all care,
Seem’d but some mad mistaking of the mind,
And, like a passion, Hope on Reuben seiz’d.
One basking crocus, at the doctor’s door,
With golden light o’erswimming, held his eye,
And seem’d to shine into his very heart.
How could that be so bright, and God so good,
And anything in all the world go ill?
Then the door open’d.
With a joke at first
The old doctor greeted neighbours so well known,
So rarely seen—then listen’d, ask’d, grew grave:
Examin’d and grew graver; paus’d awhile . . .
On death-like stillness suddenly his voice
Clapp’d, loud and harsh with sensibility:
“Reuben, my man! Mercy, my poor good soul—
Bear up! I can do nothing.”
“Nothing, sir?”
’Twas Mercy’s voice, quiet and steady; ’twas
Mercy he answer’d, talking on of rest,
Nursing, good nourishment; all palliatives—
But for a cure, not one. Some hospital
He named, which might receive her: but at that
She started, gasp’d, and “Let me die at home,”
She said. The last word scarcely pass’d her lips,
And no one spoke again.
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