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By Ellis J. Wynne

is a desert drear, A sandy plain; A waste, a wild career For phantom forms of Fear, Sorrow and Pain. No guide hath man, no guide— Self must on self confide; No hand to lead him on, No hope to rest upon— Nought but the grave!

To mock a slave!

And Death? Ah Death's a sage Who stills our fears; Our doubts and faiths engage The wisdom of his age— And eke our tears. Hushed