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To see him die, across the waste
Every one for his own.
The night is starry and cold, my friend,
How hard he breathes! over the snow
I heard just now the crowing cock.
Shake hands, before you die.
His face is growing sharp and thin.
And waiteth at the door.
There's a new foot on the floor,
To J. S.
THE wind, that beats the mountain, blows
And me this knowledge bolder made,
'Tis strange that those we lean on most, Those in whose laps our limbs are nursed, Fall into shadow, soonest lost :
Those we love first are taken first.
God gives us love. Something to love
This is the curse of time. Alas!
He will not smile-not speak to me
Once more. Two years his chair is seen Empty before us. That was he
Without whose life I had not been.
Your loss is rarer; for this star
Rose with you through a little arc Of heaven, nor having wandered far, Shot on the sudden into dark.
I knew your brother: his mute dust
A man more pure and bold and just
I have not looked upon you nigh,
And though my own eyes fill with dew, Drawn from the spirit through the brain, I will not even preach to you,
"Weep, weeping dulls the inward pain."
Let Grief be her own mistress still.
I will not say "God's ordinance
Of Death is blown in every wind;"
His memory long will live alone
In all our hearts, as mournful light That broods above the fallen sun,
And dwells in heaven half the night.
Vain solace! Memory standing near
I wrote I know not what. In truth,
For he too was a friend to me :
Both are my friends, and my true breast Bleedeth for both; yet it may be That only silence suiteth best.
Words weaker than your grief would make Grief more. "Twere better I should cease Although myself could almost take
The place of him that sleeps in peace :
Sleep sweetly, tender heart, in peace:
Sleep till the end, true soul and sweet.
Lie still, dry dust, secure of change.
"YOU ASK ME, WHY, THOUGH ILL AT EASE."
You ask me, why, though ill at ease,
It is the land that freemen till,
That sober-suited Freedom chose, The land where, girt with friends or foes, A man may speak the thing he will;
A land of settled government,
A land of just and old renown, Where Freedom broadens slowly down From precedent to precedent:
Where faction seldom gathers head,
But by degrees to fulness wrought,
Should banded unions persecute
Though Power should make from land to land The name of Britain trebly greatThough every channel of the State Should almost choke with golden sand—
Yet waft me from the harbor-mouth,
"OF OLD SAT FREEDOM ON THE HEIGHTS."
Of old sat Freedom on the heights,