538 JOHN G. DUNN. [1850-60. The tomb is stoneless ! Not a sob of woe Or prayer hies up for him who rots be- neath. The night-winds sweeping through the frozen grass Flap o'er the dead their chilly, spirit wings, In horror wailing out his only dirge. Oh, not so cold the grassless, frozen earth As this world's cold and selfish heart to thee ; Not half so dead thy stiff and bloated limbs As is thy memory. No weeds for thee ! Poor, murdered, lost ! The winter storm will flatten down thy grave ; Grass-coaxing spring will come, and winds of June, With tender blades and laughing blooms will play Upon the low, undesignated spot. The heedless passer's foot will press the turf Unconscious, aye, unmindful of thy dust ; And many a pomp of loud and splendid woe Will pass thy tomb, and in a bed like thine Lay many a corse for rottenness and worms ! Yet, oh, forgotten one, thou hadst a soul ! But men think not of this. Shame, curses, scorn. Abuse, reproach and hate — the only troop That formed thy funeral march ! No tears for thee ! Poor, murdered, lost ! He had a soul ! A soul ? Friends, think of this ! Have ye not looked upon that bloated face? Have ye not seen that red and dripping eye? Beheld ye not that tattered, filthy coat ? Have ye not heard the loud and horrid curse Of crazy drunkenness ? Hell's language rose On every rotten breath ; hell's poisoned juice Went slobbering down in many a nauseous stream, Or gurgled through his veins — drove Rea- son out With all her troop of pure and virtuous thoughts — Enkindled passion — fired the tottering soul With fierce desires and base imaginings — Fed Appetite till he a giant grew — A conquering tyrant — fierce — insatiate, Who seized the throne of Reason, and laid waste The fairy realms of thought — Drove friends away and brought the world's abuse — Tore from his back the garb of decency — Whirled his frail brain, and tomb-ward pushed him on, With staggering gait and horrid blasphemy! He tottered through the streets a sight of shame ! Hell ti'ipped him up ! Heard not the drunkard's splash ? The gutter claimed its own — its filthy stream Poured in his stranglmg nostrils, and his lips Through waters filthy, blubbered filthier oaths. No lower now ! — thus bedded with the brute, The grave with all its rottenness is clean ! Poor, murdered, lost ! What horrid shrieking thrills the midnight wind ? What writhing form is yon, in cheerless room, Who i-ends his couch of straw ? Fierce agony- Convulsions horrid rack his trembling limbs ! His strength, a giant's ! Numbers scarce can stay «
