Dim dying child be still and taste thy pain,
Poor hands be mild, for no new God appears,
And patient on thy pinnacle of years,
Dark soul forego thy Godlike task and chain
Thy longings; Faith has died and they are vain,
And thou hast lost the power of natural tears,
And memories that thy dateless childhood bears
Have blurred thy living days like sterile rain.
The soul's sweet choristers that once did toll
Thro' God's immensity are fallen dumb;
As when the accorded harps and martial drum,
Thro' some vast palace where a kingly soul
Has passed away, are hushed; and thou shalt come
Thro' life a mourner, mute and pitiful.