Mors Benefica

Give me to die unwitting of the day,And stricken in Life's brave heat, with senses clear:Not swathed and couched until the lines appearOf Death's wan mask upon this withering clay,But as that old man eloquent made wayFrom Earth, a nation's conclave hushed anear;Or as the chief whose fates, that he may hearThe victory, one glorious moment stay.Or, if not thus, then with no cry in vain,No ministrant beside to ward and weep,Hand upon helm I would my quittance gainIn some wild turmoil of the waters deep,And sink content into a dreamless sleep(Spared grave and shroud) below the ancient main.

1893