The yellow book: an illustrated quarterly (1.1894)

By Richard Garnett 245
VII

As one who on uneasy couch bewails

Besetting sickness and Time's tardy course,
Proving if drug, or gern, or charm have force

To conquer the dire evil that assails :

But when at last no remedy prevails,

And bankrupt Art Stands empty of resource,
Beholds Death in the face, and scorns recourse

To skill whose impotence in nought avails.

So I, who long have borne in trust unspent
That distance, indignation, reason, strife

With Fate would heal my malady, repent,

Frustrate all hopes wherewith my Soul was rife,

And yield unto my destiny, content

To languish for the little left of life.

A lower depth still has to be reached ere the period of salutary
and defiant reaction :—

VIII

So mightily abound the hosts of Pain,

Whom sentries of my bosom Love hath made,

No space is left to enter or evade,
And inwardly expire sighs born in vain,
If any pleasure mingle with the train,

By the first glimpse of my poor heart dismayed,

Instant he dies, or eise, in bondage stayed,
Pines languishing, or flies that drear domain.
Pale semblances of terror keep the keys,

Of frowning portals they for none displace
Save messengers of novel miseries :

All thoughts they scare that wear a gladsome face ;
And, were they anything but Miseries,

Themselves would hasten from the gloomy place.

Süghted