Читать книгу Graham's Magazine Vol XXXIII No. 1 July 1848 - Various - Страница 2

Thou art no king of terrors – sweet Death!

But a maiden young and fair;

Thine eyes are bright as the spring starlight,

And golden is thy hair;

While the smile that flickers thy lips upon

Has a light beyond compare.

Come then, Death, from the dark-brown shades

Where thou hast lingered long;

Come to the haunts where sins abound

And troubles thickly throng,

And lay thy bridal kiss on the lips

Of a child of sorrow and song.

For I can gaze with a rapture deep

Upon thy lovely face;

Many a smile I find therein,

Where another a frown would trace —

As a lover would clasp his new-made bride

I will take thee to my embrace.

Come, oh, come! I long for thy look;

I weary to win thy kiss —

Bear me away from a world of wo

To a world of quiet bliss —

For in that I may kneel to God alone,

Which I may not do in this.

For woman and wealth they woo pursuit,

And a winning voice has fame;

Men labor for love and work for wealth

And struggle to gain a name;

Yet find but fickleness, need and scorn,

If not the brand of shame.

Then carry me hence, sweet Death —my Death!

Must I woo thee still in vain?

Come at the morn or come at the eve,

Or come in the sun or rain;

But come – oh, come! for the loss of life

To me is the chiefest gain.