Page:Fugitive Poetry 1600-1878.djvu/141
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The Robber's Death-Bed.
Unknown, untended, and alone,
Beneath the damp cave's dripping stone,
On his low bed the robber lay,
Watching the sun's departing ray,
As slowly, faintly, faded all
The dim light on that cavern's wall.
Alone—alone—and death was near,
And that stern man, unused to fear,
Whose shout had led the battle-strife,
Whose arm had bared the bloody knife,
Whose soul would neither spare nor yield.
In secret way, or open field;
That giant frame, of sineevy make,
Why does each nerve and fibre quake?
Why glares around that eagle-eye?
Can he, the dauntless, fear to die?
Yes: Fear, a stranger-guest, has come
To fill that cave's mysterious gloom
With visions dire, and monsters fell,
And some remembered—all too well,
Dim pictures of the far-off past—
All hideous now, and all defaced.
What form is that advancing slow?
His mother wipes his misty brow,
He feels her breath, so gently warm,
His head rests on her feeble arm,
Kind words once more are heard, and felt,
A mother's knee in prayer has knelt.
'Tis all a dream! That form has gone,
The friendless one remains alone,
Yet something still sounds in his ear—
'Tis not the ocean-waves, though near;
It is the still small voice which speaks,
When nought beside the silence breaks.
That voice which neither wind nor wave
Nor aught can stifle but the grave;
A still small voice—yet louder far
To him who hears, than din of war;
And deep, and clear, the warning cry,
When sickness comes, and death is nigh.
At early morn there sought that cave,
On high behest, two warriors brave;
Commissioned by their prince to find,
That lawless man—to guard and bind,
Beneath the damp cave's dripping stone,
On his low bed the robber lay,
Watching the sun's departing ray,
As slowly, faintly, faded all
The dim light on that cavern's wall.
Alone—alone—and death was near,
And that stern man, unused to fear,
Whose shout had led the battle-strife,
Whose arm had bared the bloody knife,
Whose soul would neither spare nor yield.
In secret way, or open field;
That giant frame, of sineevy make,
Why does each nerve and fibre quake?
Why glares around that eagle-eye?
Can he, the dauntless, fear to die?
Yes: Fear, a stranger-guest, has come
To fill that cave's mysterious gloom
With visions dire, and monsters fell,
And some remembered—all too well,
Dim pictures of the far-off past—
All hideous now, and all defaced.
What form is that advancing slow?
His mother wipes his misty brow,
He feels her breath, so gently warm,
His head rests on her feeble arm,
Kind words once more are heard, and felt,
A mother's knee in prayer has knelt.
'Tis all a dream! That form has gone,
The friendless one remains alone,
Yet something still sounds in his ear—
'Tis not the ocean-waves, though near;
It is the still small voice which speaks,
When nought beside the silence breaks.
That voice which neither wind nor wave
Nor aught can stifle but the grave;
A still small voice—yet louder far
To him who hears, than din of war;
And deep, and clear, the warning cry,
When sickness comes, and death is nigh.
At early morn there sought that cave,
On high behest, two warriors brave;
Commissioned by their prince to find,
That lawless man—to guard and bind,