28
THE WRITINGS OF OSCAR WILDE.
by a tragedy hardly equalled in that history of literary men, which Carlyle compared to the Newgate Calendar. He paid his debt to society, and—now that he is dead—society is gracious enough to forgive him, mentions his name again and reads his books, and possibly wishes that the legend of his not being dead at all were true: for, there is no one to take his place, no one to write his plays, though a hundred small playwrights do their best to imitate him, no one to amuse the world as he amused it any more—
The dead man sleeps, his aching heart
Aches now no more, the world has passed
Out from his eyes and ears; he sleeps,
He is at peace, at last.
