Sickness

Shall the weak body conquer the strong soul?—
     The faint limb, quivering pulse and languid eye
     Give our immortal destiny the lie?
No! though this clay confess thy strong control
Grim minister of Death,—and fireless roll
     These orbs,—the unconquered spirit yet shall try
     Its glance on heaven, its pinion on the sky,
And mount triumphant to its destined goal.
In vain my soul; this clod shall tire thy wing;
     Can the clip’d eagle cleave his native air?
Will the caged bird his songs forever sing?
     Or the chained lion find his rocky lair?
How then my spirit wilt thou soar away,
Shorn of thy native strength and cooper in this dull clay?