The Stricken

Heavy! heavy! Oh, my heart
Seems a cavern deep and drear,
From whose dark recesses start,
Flutteringly, like birds of night,
Throes of passion, thoughts of fear,
Screaming in their flight;
Wildly o'er the gloom they sweep,
Spreading a horror dim — a woe that cannot weep!
Weary! weary! What is life
But a spectre-crowded tomb?
Startled with unearthly strife —
Spirits fierce in conflict met,
In the lightning and the gloom,
The agony and sweat;
Passions wild and powers insane,
And thoughts with vulture beak, and quick Promethean pain!
Gloomy — gloomy is the day;
Tortured, tempest-tost the night;
Fevers that no founts allay —
Wild and wildering unrest —
Blessings festering into blight —
A gored and gasping breast!
From their lairs what terrors start,
At that deep earthquake voice— the earthquake of the heart!
Hopeless! hopeless! Every path
Is with ruins thick bestrown;
Hurtling bolts have fallen to scathe
All the greenness of my heart
And I now am Misery's own —
We never more shall part!
My spirit's deepest, darkest wave
Writhes with the wrestling storm. Sleep! sleep!
the grave! the grave!