(p. 71)
23.
“THE LAST”
I SING my love, and singing, sigh,
For pain within my love doth lie,
That like a single jarring
string
Within my lute, doth strain and ring,
And mar its even melody.
I miss from him my meed of
praise
Who owes me love in words and ways,
And this becomes a jarring string
Within my lute, –– so small a thing
Doth mar the music of my days.
What then, my heart? O by-and-by,
Both song and love shall wholly die;
For, lute! thy voice is all unsweet,
And love! in vain thy pulses
beat,
Be hushed, be still eternally!
_________________________________________________
JOSEPH MASTERS AND SON, PRINTERS,
6 FE67
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