Self-Interogation
"The
evening
passes
fast
away.
'Tis
almost
time
to
rest;
What
thoughts
has
left
the
vanished
day,
What
feelings
in
thy
breast?
"The
vanished
day?
It
leaves
a
sense
Of
labour
hardly
done;
Of
little
gained
with
vast
expense—
A
sense
of
grief
alone?
"Time
stands
before
the
door
of
Death,
Upbraiding
bitterly
And
Conscience,
with
exhaustless
breath,
Pours
black
reproach
on
me:
"And
though
I've
said
that
Conscience
lies
And
Time
should
Fate
condemn;
Still,
sad
Repentance
clouds
my
eyes,
And
makes
me
yield
to
them!
"Then
art
thou
glad
to
seek
repose?
Art
glad
to
leave
the
sea,
And
anchor
all
thy
weary
woes
In
calm
Eternity?
"Nothing
regrets
to
see
thee
go—
Not
one
voice
sobs'
farewell;'
And
where
thy
heart
has
suffered
so,
Canst
thou
desire
to
dwell?"
"Alas!
the
countless
links
are
strong
That
bind
us
to
our
clay;
The
loving
spirit
lingers
long,
And
would
not
pass
away!
"And
rest
is
sweet,
when
laurelled
fame
Will
crown
the
soldier's
crest;
But
a
brave
heart,
with
a
tarnished
name,
Would
rather
fight
than
rest.
"Well,
thou
hast
fought
for
many
a
year,
Hast
fought
thy
whole
life
through,
Hast
humbled
Falsehood,
trampled
Fear;
What
is
there
left
to
do?
"'Tis
true,
this
arm
has
hotly
striven,
Has
dared
what
few
would
dare;
Much
have
I
done,
and
freely
given,
But
little
learnt
to
bear!
"Look
on
the
grave
where
thou
must
sleep
Thy
last,
and
strongest
foe;
It
is
endurance
not
to
weep,
If
that
repose
seem
woe.
"The
long
war
closing
in
defeat—
Defeat
serenely
borne,—
Thy
midnight
rest
may
still
be
sweet,
And
break
in
glorious
morn!"
