Feb 8, 1890: The Academy, Vol 37, pp 99-100, no 927
The thought that is pent in my heartIs roaming the roaring sea;It hath sped to the home of the whale,
Where my soul ever yearned to be.It hath flown to the ends of the earth, It hath traversed the trackless main, And back with a ravening swoopIt hath rushed on my heart again.The lone-flier screams: in my soulA passionate longing raves;I must go; I must traverse alone
The death-way over the waves;For I long for the joy of God,And I scorn a life that is death,And I know earth's treasures are vain,And that life is a fleeting breath.
I know the terror of death
Must come to all soon or late,
Be it age or disease, or the edgeOf the sword that is steeled with hate.The praise of the living is best;
The fame that awaiteth the dead,Who wrought good ere they went their way,Who shall live when the soul hath fled;For on earth they grappled with sin,And the malice of foes o'ercame;They shall live on the lips of men,
And heaven shall ring with their name. And gone is the pride of power,
And gone are the days of old,And gone are Kaiser and King,And gone is the giver of gold.The glorious deeds and the joy,
And the splendour that girt the throne Are gone, and the weak in woe Inherit the earth alone.For bowed is the pride of wealth,Earth's glory age withers and sears,
And the faces of men are pale,And are seamed with the furrows of years.
And the hoary-headed bewailThe friends they shall know no more;
They are gone; they are wrapped in the mouldThe sons of the mighty of yore. For quenched is the flicker of life,And no thought can flash through the brain;They can taste nought sweet; there's no touchIn the hand; they can feel no pain.And a brother may strew the grave Of a brother with gold, or entombHis corse with treasure untold;
But the dead must abide his doom.For the gold the miser hoards,And men struggle through life to win, Cannot save from the wrath of GodThe soul that is steeped in sin.
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