Ode, Sacred to the Memory of Mrs. Oswald of Auchencruive
DWELLER in yon dungeon dark,Hangman of creation! mark,Who in widow-weeds appears,Laden with unhonour’d years,Noosing with care a bursting purse,Baited with many a deadly curse?
STROPHE View the wither’d Beldam’s face;Can thy keen inspection traceAught of Humanity’s sweet, melting grace?Note that eye, ’tis rheum o’erflows;Pity’s flood there never rose,See these hands ne’er stretched to save,Hands that took, but never gave:Keeper of Mammon’s iron chest,Lo, there she goes, unpitied and unblest,She goes, but not to realms of everlasting rest!
ANTISTROPHEPlunderer of Armies! lift thine eyes,(A while forbear, ye torturing fiends;)Seest thou whose step, unwilling, hither bends?No fallen angel, hurl’d from upper skies;’Tis thy trusty quondam Mate,Doom’d to share thy fiery fate;She, tardy, hell-ward plies.
EPODE And are they of no more avail,Ten thousand glittering pounds a-year?In other worlds can Mammon fail,Omnipotent as he is here!
O, bitter mockery of the pompous bier,While down the wretched Vital Part is driven!The cave-lodged Beggar,with a conscience clear,Expires in rags, unknown, and goes to Heaven.
Sign in to like, rate and collect poems, and keep track of what you've read.