Page:The Poetical Works of William Motherwell, 1849.djvu/193

 Each monstrous birth Cumbers old earth, But acts a voiceless part, Resolving all to mine own doom, The darkness of a Nameless Tomb.

Tradition with her palsied hand, And purblind History, may Grope and guess well that in this land Some great one lived his day; And what is this, Blind hit or miss, But labour thrown away, For counterparts to mine own doom, The darkness of a Nameless Tomb?

I do not peak and pine away, Lo! this deep bowl I quaff; If sigh I do, you still must say It sounds more like a laugh. 'Tis not too late To separate The good seed from the chaff; And scoff at those who scorn my doom, The darkness of a Nameless Tomb.