Page:The Poets and Poetry of the West.djvu/333

 1840-50.] HENRY W. ELLSWORTH. 317 And, with folded hands above them, Breathe our blessings on the dead ? Shall we meet yet, love, together. In that spirit clime on high. Where the blessed of earth are gathered, And the heart's best treasures lie ; — Where each deathless soul retaineth All it knew or loved of yore ; — Shall we — father, son and mother — Meet above to part no more ? THE CHOLERA KING. He Cometh, a conqueror proud and strong! At the head of a mighty band Of the countless dead, as he passed along, That he slew with his red right hand ; And over the mountains, or down the vale. As his shadowy train sweeps on. There stealeth a lengthened note of wail, For the loved and early gone ! He Cometh ! the sparkling eye grows dim. And heavily draws the breath Of the trembler, who whispers low of him. And his standard-bearer, death, — He striketh the rich man down from power. And wasteth the student pale. Nor 'scapes him the maid in her latticed bower. Nor the warrior armed in mail ! He Cometh ! through ranks of steel-clad men To the heart of the warrior band ; Ye may count where his conquering step hath been By the spear in each nerveless hand. Wild shouteth he where on the battle plain, By the dead are the living hid. As he buildeth up from the foemen slain His skeleton pyramid ! There stealeth 'neath yonder turret's height, A lover, with song and lute. Nor knoweth the lips of his lady bright Are pale, and her soft voice mute, — For he dreameth not, when no star is dim. Nor cloud in the summer sky. That she, who from childhood loved him. Hath laid her down to die ! She watcheth ! a fond young mother dear! While her heart beats high with pride. How she best to the good of life may rear. The dear one by her side ; With a fervent prayer, and a love-kiss warm. She hath sunk to a dreamy rest, Unconscious all of the death-cold form That she claspeth to her breast ! Sail ho ! for the ship that tireless flies, While the mad waves leap around. As she spreadeth her wings for the native skies. Of the wanderers homeward bound, — Away ! through the trackless waters blue ; Yet ere half her course is done. From the wasted ranks of her merry crew There standeth only one ! All hushed is the city's busy throng. As it sleeps in the fold of death, Like the desert o'er which hath passed along The pestilent Simoom's breath ; All hushed: save the chill and stifling heart Of some trembling passer-by. As he looketh askance on the dead-man's cart, Where it waiteth the next to die I The fire hath died from the cottage hearth, — The plow on the unturned plain Stands still, while unreaped to the mother earth, Down droppeth the golden grain !