“It is no matter;” — thus the noble Dane,
About his heart more ill than one could tell;
Sad augury, that like a funeral bell
Against his soul struck solemn notes of pain.
So‘ gainst the deadly smother he could press
With calm his lofty manhood; interpose
Purpose divine, and at the last disclose
For life's great shift a regnant readiness.
To-day I bought some matches in the street
From one whose eyes had long since lost their sight.
Trembling with palsy was he to his feet.
“Father,” I said, “how fare you in the night?”
“In body ill, but‘ tis no matter, friend,
Strong is my soul to keep me to the end.”