The casket grows cold,
The jewel I hold,
For hearts of love.
Come along with me, thou trader in gold,
Many have turned from thy office to-day.
Thou hast no time to consider the claim
Of the wronged or helpless who crossed thy way.
You shudder, trembling one.
Close up the ledger, business is done.
Let you stay till your vessel comes in?
I'll take you far from the market's din,
And you'll have time,
In that strange clime,
To meditate.
For thou wilt awaken, I would not hold.
If I could, the past from memory's ken.
I fancy that other ledgers unfold,
Their pages for some of you business men;
Rest to night, tired one.
Not half of your merchandise is done?
The steamers, the banks, the corn exchange?
No, Azael deals not in notes or change;
He keeps no gold,
In his fingers cold,
He takes no bribe.
Come along with me, sweet lady so fair,
Who told thee I was so grim and so cold;
Know you that I covet that sunny hair,
And those delicate arms's caressing fold;
Fear me not, gentle one.
What if the hymn and the task are done,
In my arms there is far calmer rest,
Then thou wilt find on thy lover's breast.
Sleep, sleep for awhile,
Then waken to smile,
Ever and aye.
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