Supposed to Be Written by Any Feeble-Minded Man Meditating Self-Destruction

Sweet brother-soul! I may not tarry here;
The grave is made for me— if joy had been
But rarely visitant or dimly seen,
I would not thus have call'd the distance near,
Or summon'd for my peace this early bier:
But happiness long-while hath kept aloof,
An alien to my heart, which was not proof
Against the lacking of a thing so dear:
The hour is drawing nigh, when this wild heart
Shall be the thrall of worms, and know it not,
As calm as peace can be. No pulse or start
Of reviviscence, till the life hath got
Its flow again, which had but ebb'd in part:
But never more to feel the sinner's earthly lot!