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skrevet, som han forfattede paa sin 36aarige
Fødselsdag. Sammenligner man det med de
fortvivlede Linier han nedskrev den Dag, han fyldte
33 Aar, føler man ret Forskjellen. Det indeholder
med Anelsen om hans nærforestaaende Død det
mandigste Forsæt.
’Tis time this heart skould be unmoved
Since others it hath ceased to move
Yet, though I cannot be beloved,
Still let me love!
My days are in the yellow leaf;
The flowers and fruits of love are gone
The worm, the canker and the grief
Are mine alone!
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
But ’tis not thus — and ’tis not here
Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor now
Where glory decks the hero’s bier
Or binds his brow.
The sword, the banner, and the field,
Glory and Greece, around me see!
The Spartan, borne upon his shield,
Was not more free.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Seek out — less often sought than found —
A soldier’s grave, for thee the best;
Then look around, and choose thy ground,
And take thy rest.
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