[Gamesnow-webm] r country dying,--

[Fiwck <com...@sc...>]

>From the world's remotest quarters A tide of pilgrims flowed Across
broad plains and over mighty waters, To find that blest abode, Where
never death should come between, and sever Them from their loved apart--
Where they might work, and will, and live forever, Still holding heart
to heart. And so they lived, in happiness and pleasure, And grew in
power and pride, And did great deeds, and laid up stores of treasure,
And never any died. And many yers rolled on, and saw them striving With
unabated breath, And other years still found and left them living, And
gave no hope of death. Yet listen, hapless soul whom angels pity,
Craving a boon like this-- Mark how the dwellers in the wondrous city
Grew weary of their bliss. One and another, who had been concealing The
pain of life's long thrall, Forsook their pleasant places, and came
stealing Outside the city wall, Craving, with wish that brooked no more
denying, So long had it been crossed, The blessed possibility of
dying,-- The treasure they had lost. Daily the current of rest-seeking
mortals Swelled to a broader tide, Till none were left within the city's
portals, And graves grew green outside. Would it be worth the having or
the giving, The boon of endless breath? Ah, for the weariness that comes
of living There is no cure but death! Ours were indeed a fate deserving
pity, Were that swe