Part 9 — THE STRICKEN.

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BY ROBT. T. CONRAD.

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Turn thou unto me, and have mercy upon me; for I am desolate and in misery. Psalms.

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 wo 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!