Sickness

Mighty art thou, o Sickness! and the strong
     And giant-limed bow feebly to thy sway—
     Thy veriest whisper do the proud obey;
Thou passest, lie a conqueror, along,
And iron nerves grow tremulous—the song
     Of merriment, the wassail-cry, are hushed,
     And the rose-tinted cheek that erewhile blushed
Brightly amid the gay and youthful throng
Grows pale as the white marble. O’er the mind
Gifted and vigorous, thou also claimest
     A wide dominion, fettering the thought,
     Dimming the soul with richest treasures fraught,
And human pride and man’s high hopes thou tamest,
And teachest all the frailty of mankind.