_Schol._ Sir, had the will of God ordained a wider, A nobler sphere of usefulness on earth, He would have given me strength, and health, and power For its accomplishment. I murmur not That little has been done, but rather bless Him Who has permitted me to do that little; And die content in his sufficient mercy, Which has vouchsafed reward beyond my merit. _Philos._ Nay, I must serve you! Let me but contribute Unto your body’s ease. This wretched room, And its poor pallet--would you not desire A lighter, airier, more commodious chamber, Looking out to the hills; and where the shine Of the great sun might enter--where sweet odours, And almost spiritual beauty of fair flowers Might gratify the sense--and you might fall Gracefully into death, in downy ease? Speak, and all this is yours! _Schol._ Here will I die! Here have I lived--here from my boyhood lived; These naked walls are like familiar faces, And that poor pallet has so oft given rest To my o’erwearied limbs, there will I die! _Philos._ But you do need physicians--here is gold, I know the scholar’s fee is scant enough! I will go hence, and send you an attendant. _Schol._ I cannot take your gold, I want it not. My sickness is beyond the aid of man; And soon, even now, I did expect my mother. _Philos._ [_affecting sorrow._] My dear young friend, I have to ask your pardon; The letter that I promised to deliver, I did forget--indeed I gave it not! _Schol._ How have I trusted to a broken reed! Oh mock me not with offers of your friendship, Say not that thou would serve me! Oh my mother-- Poor, broken-hearted one, I shall not see thee! [_He covers his face for a moment, then, rises up with sudden energy._ Whoe’er you are, and for what purpose come, I know not--you have troubled me too long-- But something in my spirit, from the first, Told me that you were evil; and my thought Has often inly uttered the rebuke, “Get thee behind me, Satan!” Leave me now-- Leave me my lonely chamber to myself, And let me die in peace! [_The Philosopher goes out, abashed. The scholar falls back into his chair, exhausted; after some time recovering, he faintly raises himself._ ’Tis night fall now--and through the uncurtained window I see the stars; there is no moon to-night. Here then I light my lamp for the last time; And ere that feeble flame has spent itself, A soul will have departed! Let me now Close my account with life; and to affection, And never-cancelled duty, give their rights: [_He opens his Bible and inscribes it._