Mors Benefica

Give me to die unwitting of the day, And stricken in Life’s brave heat, with senses clear: Not swathed and couched until the lines appear Of Death’s wan mask upon this withering clay, But as that old man eloquent made way From Earth, a nation’s conclave hushed anear; Or as the chief whose fates, that he may hear The victory, one glorious moment stay. Or, if not thus, then with no cry in vain, No ministrant beside to ward and weep, Hand upon helm I would my quittance gain In some wild turmoil of the waters deep, And sink content into a dreamless sleep (Spared grave and shroud) below the ancient main.

Collection: 
English
Edmund Clarence Stedman

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