EPILOGUE.

Let the dream pass, the fancy fade!

We clutch a shape, and hold a shade.

Is Peace so peaceful? Nay,— who knows!

There are volcanoes under snows.

In after days when grasses high

O'er-top the stone where I shall lie,

Though ill or well the world adjust

My slender claim to honoured dust,

I shall not question or reply.

I shall not see the morning sky;

I shall not hear the night-wind sigh;

I shall be mute, as all men must

In after days!

But yet, now living, fain were I

That some one then should testify,

Saying — “He held his pen in trust

To Art, not serving shame or lust.”

Will none?— Then let my memory die

In after days!