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AT THE ‘J. C.’
None ever knew his name—
Honoured, or one of shame,
Highborn or lowly;
Only upon that tree
Two letters, J and C,
Carved by him, mark where he
Lay dying slowly.
Why came he to the West?
Had then the parent nest
Grown so distasteful?
What cause had he to shun
Life, ere ’twas well begun?
Was he that youngest son,
Of substance wasteful?
Were Fate and he at war?
Was it a penance, or
Renunciation?
Is it a glad release?
Has he at length found peace,
Now Death hath bid him cease
Peregrination?
