Is sworn to do the deed: The day of rest No peace, no comfort, brings his woe-worn spirit; Self-curst, the hallow'd dome he dreads to enter; He dares not pray; he dares not sigh a hope; Annihilation is his only heaven. Loathsome the converse of his friends! he shuns The human face; in ev'ry careless eye Suspicion of his purpose seems to lurk. Deep piny shades he loves, where no sweet note Or far in moors, remote from house or hut, Where ev'n the hum of wand'ring bee ne'er breaks Where vegetation's traces almost fail, Save where the leafless cannachs wave their tufts Of silky white, or massy oaken trunks Half-buried lie, and tell where greenwoods grew,There on the heathless moss outstretch'd, he broods O'er all his ever-changing plans of death : The time, place, means, sweep, like a moon-light rack, In fleet succession, o'er his clouded soul, The poignard, and the opium draught, that brings Death by degrees, but leaves an awful chasm Between the act and consequence,—the flash Sulphureous, fraught with instantaneous death ;The ruin'd tower perch'd on some jutting rock, So high that, 'tween the leap and dash below, The breath might take its flight in midway air,— This pleases for a time; but on the brink, Back from the toppling edge his fancy shrinks In horror; sleep at last his breast becalms,— He dreams 'tis done; but starting wild awakes, Resigning to despair his dream of joy. Then hope, faint hope revives-hope that Despair May to his aid let loose the demon Frenzy, To lead scar'd Conscience blindfold o'er the brink Of Self-destruction's cataract of blood. Most miserable, most incongruous wretch ! Or sweetly chaunted strain, will in thy heart What are thy fancied woes to his whose fate Is (sentence dire !) incurable disease,- Or with a home where eyes do scowl on him? Patient he waits the hour of his release ; OR turn thee to that house, with studded doors, And iron-visor'd windows,-even there The Sabbath sheds a beam of bliss, tho' faint; The debtor's friends (for still he has some friends) Have time to visit him; the blossoming pea, That climbs the rust-worn bars, seems fresher ting'd; And on the little turf, this day renew'd, The lark, his prison mate, quivers the wing With more than wonted joy. See, thro' the bars, That pallid face retreating from the view, That glittering eye following, with hopeless look, The friends of former years, now passing by In peaceful fellowship to worship God: C With them in days of youthful years, he roam'd O'er hill and dale, o'er broomy knowe; and wist As little as the blythest of the band Of this his lot; condemn'd, condemn'd unheard, He sees pass on, to join the heav'n-taught prayer, The Sabbath bell sounds peace; he loves to meet And many a prayer, as pure as e'er was breath'd In holy fanes, is sigh'd in prison halls. Ah me! that clank of chains, as kneel and rise |