Page:The Poetical Works of William Motherwell, 1849.djvu/108

 But thy metal's as true As its polish is bright; When ills wax in number, Thy love will not slumber, But starlike, burns fiercer, The darker the night. ! I kiss thee.

My kindred have perished By war or by wave— Now, childless and sireless, I long for the grave. When the path of our glory Is shadowed in death, With me thou wilt slumber Below the brown heath; Thou wilt rest on my bosom, And with it decay— While harps shall be ringing, And Scalds shall be singing The deeds we have done in Our old fearless day. ! I kiss thee.