TO THE SAME.
BY A MISER'S PENSIONER.
Once, spirit, as a little child, I went
Unto the burning mount, where thou didst stoop
To pluck me from low cares and sorrows up,
My inspiration, my abandonment.
Thou camest, because the messengers I sent
Were love and noble longings. I was given
To that self-losing which restores us heaven.
But now my sacrificial robe is rent,
And turns to ashes in the poisonous breath
Of this low life—and fast contract mine eyes
To meet the glare of colored vanities.—
In passionless self-possession croucheth death;
Better than this were agony and strife—
Wake me to life, if need be, bleeding life!
Unto the burning mount, where thou didst stoop
To pluck me from low cares and sorrows up,
My inspiration, my abandonment.
Thou camest, because the messengers I sent
Were love and noble longings. I was given
To that self-losing which restores us heaven.
But now my sacrificial robe is rent,
And turns to ashes in the poisonous breath
Of this low life—and fast contract mine eyes
To meet the glare of colored vanities.—
In passionless self-possession croucheth death;
Better than this were agony and strife—
Wake me to life, if need be, bleeding life!