James Clarence Mangan

Slow thro' my bosom's veins their last cold blood is flowing;
Above my heart even now I feel the rank grass growing.
Hence to the land of naught the caravan is starting;
Its bell already tolls the signal for departing.
Rejoice, my soul, poor bird! thou art at last delivered:
Thy cage is crumbling fast, the bars will soon be shivered.
Farewell this troubled world, where sin and crime run riot!
For Shahi henceforth rests in God's own house of quiet.