Classic Poem

A thousand sounds of happiness,
And only one of real distress,
One hardly uttered groan—
But that has hushed all vocal joy,
Eclipsed the glory of the sky,
And made me think that misery
Rules in our world alone!
About his face the sunshine glows,
And in his hair the south wind blows,
And violet and wild wood-rose
Are sweetly breathing near;
Nothing without suggests dismay,
If he could force his mind away
From tracking farther, day by day,
The desert of Despair.
Too truly agonized to weep,
His eyes are motionless as sleep;
His frequent sighs, long-drawn and deep,
Are anguish to my ear;
And I would soothe—but can I call
The cold corpse from its funeral pall,
And cause a gleam of hope to fall
With my consoling tear?
O Death, so many spirits driven
Through this false world, their all had given
To win the everlasting haven
To sufferers so divine—*
Why didst thou smite the loved, the blest,
The ardent and the happy breast,
That, full of hope,1 desired not rest,*
And shrank appalled from thine?
At least, since thou wilt not restore,
In mercy, launch one arrow more;
Life's conscious Death it wearies sore,
It tortures worse than thee.
Enough of storms have bowed his head:*
Grant him at last a quiet bed,
Beside his early stricken dead—
Even where he yearns to be!
The Reverend A. B. Nicholls has added the title “Despair” in his transcript of this poem.1 The word “life” is written over “hope,” or vice versa, in the manuscript.