I LEFT thee last, a child at heart,   A woman scarce in years: I come to thee, a solemn corpse   Which neither feels nor fears. I have no breath to use in sighs; They laid the dead-weights on mine eyes   To seal them safe from tears.

Look on me with thine own calm look:   I meet it calm as thou. No look of thine can change this smile,   Or break thy sinful vow: I tell thee that my poor scorn'd heart Is of thine earth—thine earth—a part:   It cannot vex thee now.

I have pray'd for thee with bursting sob   When passion's course was free; I have pray'd for thee with silent lips   In the anguish none could see; They whisper'd oft, 'She sleepeth soft'—   But I only pray'd for thee.

Go to! I pray for thee no more:   The corpse's tongue is still; Its folded fingers point to heaven,   But point there stiff and chill: No farther wrong, no farther woe Hath licence from the sin below   Its tranquil heart to thrill.

I charge thee, by the living's prayer,   And the dead's silentness, To wring from out thy soul a cry   Which God shall hear and bless! Lest Heaven's own palm droop in my hand, And pale among the saints I stand,   A saint companionless.