The Fever Stricken

Oh, pleasant is the yellow light 
     That dances on the pictured wall—
But to my aching vision,—night
     Seems brooding darkly over all.

The wind—it hath a soothing sound 
     I hear it whispering to the trees—
Yet wo is me! a prisoner bound 
     And racked by pitiless Disease.

Burns in my veins, with heat intense, 
     From hour to hour, the fever-fire—
Till quivering flesh and tortured sense 
     Grow weary with the conflict dire.

Around my bed, at midnight, dance
     Fantastic shapes and phantoms grim—
Now shrieking—singing now, perchance,
     Wild snatches of a wilder hymn!

They pass—and fiends, with fiery eyes,
     Scowl fiercely through the dark —and sobs,
With mingled laughter, sink and rise,
     Responsive to my heart's wild throbs.

Then sweetly to my ear doth come
     Some faint, yet dear familiar tone—
An echo of my childhood's home—
     Fraught with a music all its own.

A happy child once more I stand
     O'ershadowed by my favorite tree—
With brow and bosom bared, and fanned
     By freshening breezes from the sea.

Brief joy—the ground on which I tread 
     Glows, furnace-like, beneath my feet;
And clouds and sky above my head
     Seem molten with intenser heat.

Choked by the hot and sulphury air, 
     I gasp convulsively for breath,
While demons prompt the impious prayer, 
     In anguish breathed, for instant death!

Tortured by dreams, of fever born,
     Amid bewildering visions lost,
From morn to night, from night to morn, 
     Upon my couch, delirious, tost—

How long, I cry, oh Lord, how long?
     I hasten downward to the grave—
Life ebbs in darkness—Death is strong—
     And skill is impotent to save!

Oh wo! by hope no more beguiled, 
     To struggle with my wretchedness!
Too heavy on thy suffering child,
     Great God! thy chastening land doth press!

Yet kind and merciful art Thou,
     Though clouds and darkness veil Thy throne—
To thy behest I meekly bow, 
     And murmur, let Thy will be done!