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And here beneath it is all as bad,

For I thought the dead had peace, but it is not so ;
To have no peace in the grave, is that not sad ?

and down and to and fro,

Ever about me the dead men go ;

And then to hear a dead man chatter

Is enough to drive one mad.


Wretchedest age, since Time began,
They cannot even bury a man;
And tho' we paid our tithes in the days that are


Not a bell was rung, not a prayer was read;

It is that which makes us loud in the world of

the dead;

There is none that does his work, not one;
A touch of their office might have sufficed,

But the churchmen fain would kill their church,

As the churches have kill'd their Christ.


See, there is one of us sobbing,

No limit to his distress;

And another, a lord of all things, praying
To his own great self, as I guess ;
And another, a statesman there, betraying
His party-secret, fool, to the press ;
And yonder a vile physician, blabbing

The case of his patient—all for what?
To tickle the maggot born in an empty head,

And wheedle a world that loves him not,

For it is but a world of the dead.


Nothing but idiot gabble!
For the prophecy given of old

And then not understood,

Has come to pass as foretold;
Not let any man think for the public good,

But babble, merely for babble.

For I never whisper'd a private affair

Within the hearing of cat or mouse,

No, not to myself in the closet alone,

But I heard it shouted at once from the top of the

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Not that

gray old wolf, for he came not back

From the wilderness, full of wolves, where he used

to lie;

He has gather’d the bones for his o'ergrown whelp

to crack;

Crack them now for yourself, and howl, and die.


Prophet, curse me the blabbing lip,

And curse

ne the British vermin, the rat;

I know not whether he came in the Hanover ship,

But I know that he lies and listens mute

In an ancient mansion's crannies and holes :
Arsenic, arsenic, sir, would do it,
Except that now we poison our babes, poor souls !
It is all used up for that.


Tell him now: she is standing here at my head;
Not beautiful now, not even kind;
may take her now; for she never speaks her


But is ever the one thing silent here.
She is not of us, as I divine ;
She comes from another stiller world of the dead,

Stiller, not fairer than mine.


But I know where a garden grows,

Fairer than aught in the world beside,

All made up of the lily and rose
That blow by night, when the season is good,
To the sound of dancing music and flutes :
It is only flowers, they had no fruits,
And I almost fear they are not roses, but blood;
For the keeper was one, so full of pride,
He linkt a dead man there to a spectral bride;
For he, if he had not been a Sultan of brutes,

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He laid a cruel snare in a pit
To catch a friend of mine one stormy day;

Yet now I could even weep to think of it;

For what will the old man say

When he comes to the second corpse in the pit?


Friend, to be struck by the public foe,

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