Ay ! thou look'st cold on me, pomp-loving Moon,
Thy courtier stars following in bright array,
Like some proud queen, when Meekness begs a boon,
With upraised brow wondering what he should say,—
Then passing in her slow and silent scorn away!
Blank-visaged, wan, high-pacing Dame! I come,
No suitor to thy pity; nor to crave
One beam to gild the darkness of my doom,
Not even a tear to weep me in the grave;
Think'st thou I'd wear thy tinsel on my pall,
Or deck my shroud with sorry gems like thine?
No, let me die, unseen, unwept of all,
Let not a dog over my ashes whine,—
And sweep thou on thy worldly way, O Moon! nor glance at mine!