The Drudge
Repose upon her soulless face,Dig the grave and leave her;But breathe a prayer that, in his grace,He who so loved this toiling raceTo endless rest receive her.
Oh, can it be the gates ajarWait not her humble quest,Whose life was but a patient warAgainst the death that stalked from farWith neither haste nor rest;
To whom were sun and moon and cloud,The streamlet’s pebbly coil,The transient, May-bound, feathered crowd,The storm’s frank fury, thunder-browed,But witness of her toil;
Whose weary feet knew not the blissOf dance by jocund reed;Who never dallied at a kiss!If heaven refuses her, life isA tragedy indeed!