EPILOGUE.

Let the dream pass, the fancy fade! We clutch a shape, and hold a shade. Is Peace so peaceful? Nay,—who knows! There are volcanoes under snows.

In after days when grasses high O'er-top the stone where I shall lie, Though ill or well the world adjust My slender claim to honoured dust, I shall not question or reply.

I shall not see the morning sky; I shall not hear the night-wind sigh; I shall be mute, as all men must In after days!

But yet, now living, fain were I That some one then should testify, Saying—"He held his pen in trust To Art, not serving shame or lust." Will none?—Then let my memory die In after days!