October 12, 1892
"Gib diesen Todten mir heraus." -- Don Carlos.
Bring me my dead!To me that have grownStone laid upon stone,As the stormy broodOf English bloodHas waxed and spreadAnd filled the world,With sails unfurled;With men that may not lie;With thoughts that cannot die.
Bring me my dead!Into the storied hall,Where I have garnered allMy harvest without weed;My chosen fruits of seed;And lay him gently down amongThe men of state, the men of song;The men that would not suffer wrong;The thought-worn chieftains of the mind;Head servants of the human kind.
Bring me my dead!The autumn sun shall shedIts beams athwart the bier'sHeaped blooms; a many tearsShall flow; his words, in cadence sweet and strong,Shall voice the full hearts of the silent throng.Bring me my dead!
And oh! sad wedded mourner, seeking stillFor vanished hand-clasp; drinking in thy fillOf holy grief: forgive, that pious theftRobs thee of all, save memories, left:Not thine to kneel beside the grassy moundWhile dies the western glow; and all aroundIs silence; and the shadows closer creepAnd whisper softly: All must fall asleep.
