Classic Poem

The hopes that allured me
To cope with the worst,
At length have secured me
The tortures accurst
Of fever and grief,
And frenzy — in brief
Ills — ills from which Death is the only relief.

But Titan-like lieth
My soul in her chains;
Hourly she sigheth.
The answer she gains,
But adds night and day
To pain and dismay:
'Tis the scream of the vulture Despair at his prey.