Shouldst thou awake when I have pass'd away,
Shouldst thou see clear the error and the wrong,
And Truth break on thee with its dazzling ray,
As sure it will, for Innocence is strong,
Then may my prayers thine every pang allay!

For thee, poor youth,--go not unto the grave
With a red lie upon thy trembling tongue--
Not for myself, but for thy soul I crave,--
Death's champions should have sinews tightly strung,
And thou wilt falter where I shall be brave.

In that dim world there flows no cooling stream,
No Lethe for the guilty and the fever'd,
There is no answer to their parching scream,
From hope and mercy they are ever sever'd,
There is no waking from their spectral dream.

Then pause or e'er thou stampest on thy soul
Eternally such misery as thine,
And writest on God's conscience-blasting scroll,
A wife's dishonour, and a tarnish'd line,
To weigh for thee thine everlasting dole...

Friend, let thine arm be strong, good sooth there's need,
Thou cuttest through a weary depth of woe!--
Well! that will pass, and soon rest come indeed,--
Ay, ay! the robe's white now ... will't long be so?...
Yet better far the crimson tide should flow,
Than the heart inly with its anguish bleed.