Classic Poem

EFFUSION IV.

S TRETCH'D on the bed of pain, restless I lie,
Nor taste the vernal day-spring. Heavily
Pass the lone hours; and thro' my wasting nerves
The feverish langour steals. Yet not for this
Heave I the frequent groan — nor not for this
Course down my wasted cheeks the channell'd tears,
Dewing the uneasy pillow. Corporal pain,
The woe of vulgar minds, with stoic pride,
I well can combat: and there was a time,
When never lonesome seem'd the pensive hour
Of silent solitude. For then the Muse,
On Contemplation's wing, would haply soar
Into the realms of Fancy; bodying forth
Ideal excellence, and into life,
Calling each nobler feeling: or, more blest,
With whisper'd voice, most musical, would tell
Of future hopes (how specious) — flattering boons
That the paternal heart might well repay
For all its years of anguish. Ah! how oft
In such sweet vision has my raptur'd soul
Dwelt on thy form, Maria! — — Ah! how oft
Imag'd thy rip'ning years; when every hope,
That sweetly blossom'd in thy morn of life,
Should bloom in gracious fulness — when thy form,
More fair expanding, and more beauteous mind
(Germe of each kindlier virtue!) should secure
(As did thy spring-tide promise) joy and love,
And all the blissful feelings that reflect
Back on the worth that wakes them. Ah! most blest
When thoughts like these were present! Pain, and Woe,
And persecuting Fortune, lost their power,
And my torn heart was heal'd. — — But, she is gone!
The balm of life is gone; and its sore ills
Fester irremeable! Yet, not these I feel:
Nought but thy loss is poignant — O! Maria! —
My health! — my joy! — my fortune! all entomb'd!