Classic Poem

V OL. 3, C ANTIQUE 69

I SUFFER fruitless anguish day by day,
Each moment, as it passes, marks my pain;
Scarce knowing whither, doubtfully I stray,
And see no end of all that I sustain.

The more I strive, the more I am withstood;
Anxiety encreasing ev'ry hour,
My spirit finds no rest, performs no good,
And nought remains of all my former pow'r.

My peace of heart is fled, I know not where;
My happy hours, like shadows, pass'd away;
Their sweet remembrance doubles all my care,
Night darker seems, succeeding such a day.

Dear faded joys, and impotent regret,
What profit is there in incessant tears?
Oh Thou, whom, once beheld, we ne'er forget,
Reveal thy Love, and banish all my fears!

Alas! he flies me — treats me as his foe,
Views not my sorrows, hears not when I plead; —
Woe such as mine, despis'd, neglected woe,
Unless it shorten life, is vain indeed.

Pierc'd with a thousand wounds, I yet survive;
My pangs are keen, but no complaint transpires;
And while in terrors of thy wrath I live,
Hell seems to lose its less tremendous fires.

Has Hell a pain I would not gladly bear,
So thy severe displeasure might subside?
Hopeless of ease, I seem already There,
My life extinguish'd, and yet death denied.

Is this the joy so promis'd — this the love,
Th' unchanging love, so sworn in better days?
Ah dang'rous glories! shown me, but to prove
How lovely thou, and I how rash to gaze.

Why did I see them? had I still remain'd
Untaught, still ignorant how fair thou art,
My humbler wishes I had soon obtain'd,
Nor known the torments of a doubting heart.

Depriv'd of all, yet feeling no desires,
Whence then, I cry, the pangs that I sustain?
Dubious and uninform'd, my soul inquires,
Ought she to cherish, or shake off her pain.

Suff'ring I suffer not — sincerely love,
Yet feel no touch of that enliv'ning flame;
As chance inclines me, unconcern'd I move,
All times, and all events, to me the same.

I search my heart, and not a wish is there,
But burns with zeal that hated self may fall;
Such is the sad inquietude I share,
A sea of doubts, and self the source of all.

I ask not life, nor do I wish to die;
And if thine hand accomplish not my cure,
I would not purchase, with a single sigh,
A free discharge from all that I endure.

I groan in chains, yet want not a release;
Am sick, and know not the distemper'd part;
Am just as void of purpose, as of peace;
Have neither plan, nor fear, nor hope, nor heart.

My claim to life, though sought with earnest care,
No light, within me or without me, shows;
Once I had faith; but now, in self-despair
Find my chief cordial, and my best repose.

My soul is a forgotten thing, she sinks,
Sinks and is lost, without a wish to rise;
Feels an indiff'rence she abhors, and thinks
Her name eras'd forever from the skies.

Language affords not my distress a name,
Yet is it real and no sickly dream;
'Tis Love inflicts it; though to feel that flame,
Is all I know of happiness supreme.

When Love departs, a Chaos wide and vast
And dark as Hell, is open'd in the soul;
When Love returns, the gloomy scene is past,
No tempests shake her, and no fears control.

Then tell me, why these ages of delay?
O Love, all-excellent, once more appear;
Disperse the shades, and snatch me into day,
From this abyss of night, these floods of fear!

No — Love is angry, will not now endure
A sigh of mine, or suffer a complaint;
He smites me, wounds me, and withholds the cure;
Exhausts my pow'rs, and leaves me sick and faint.

He wounds, and hides the hand that gave the blow;
He flies, he re-appears, and wounds again —
Was ever heart that lov'd thee, treated so?
Yet I adore thee, though it seem in vain.

And wilt thou leave me, whom, when lost and blind,
Thou didst distinguish, and vouchsafe to choose,
Before thy laws were written in my mind,
While yet the world had all my thoughts and views?

Now leave me? when, enamour'd of thy laws,
I make thy glory my supreme delight;
Now blot me from thy register, and cause
A faithful soul to perish from thy sight?

What can have caus'd the change that I deplore!
Is it to prove me, if my heart be true?
Permit me then, while prostrate I adore,
To draw, and place its picture in thy view.

'Tis thine without reserve, most simply thine;
So giv'n to thee, that it is not my own;
A willing Captive of thy grace divine;
And loves, and seeks thee, for thyself alone.

Pain cannot move it, danger cannot scare;
Pleasure, and wealth, in its esteem, are dust;
It loves thee, ev'n when least inclin'd to spare
Its tend'rest feelings, and avows thee just.

'Tis all thine own; my spirit is so too,
An undivided off'ring at thy shrine;
It seeks thy glory with no double view,
Thy glory, with no secret bent to mine.

Love, holy Love! and art thou not severe,
To slight me, thus devoted, and thus fixt?
Mine is an everlasting ardour, clear
From all self-bias, gen'rous and unmixt.

But I am silent, seeing what I see —
And fear, with cause, that I am self-deceiv'd;
Not ev'n my faith is from suspicion free,
And, that I love, seems not to be believ'd.

Live thou, and reign, forever, glorious Lord!
My last, least off'ring, I present thee now —
Renounce me, leave me, and be still ador'd!
Slay me, my God, and I applaud the blow.