Classic Poem

" Far back in that dark desperate hour,
When the swart mandragore had power, —
While the suicidal draught, like flame,
Through all the galleries of my frame
Spread its malignant fire — even then
I repented and prayed for life again —
Not from the torture; but that I knew,
When it seemed too late, that thou wert true.

" And then I swooned, and heard the tread
Of muffled feet — while sad hearts said,
In sighs and whispers — " She is dead! is dead!"
And then I knew, — oh, wo was me! —
That word was a shaft of pain to thee,
A shaft which I had winged with flame
And sped — and yet could not reclaim!
I saw thy high soul with the blow
Struck to the dreary plains of wo,
Yet struggling in its fall, as when
An eagle, sailing with sunward ken,
Receives from the heartless archer's bow
The envious arrow winged from below.

" Then I felt thy hasty farewell kiss, —
A touch of mingled torture and bliss;
And my soul within me writhed with pain
That I could not return that kiss again.
And then you fled! I heard the door
Swing loud behind — and heard no more
My very soul then swooned — and all
Was blacker than midnight's starless pall.
And more I know not — till a long cool breath
Came into my breast and chased out Death —
Or that dark sleep which did counterfeit
Black Death so well, that I scarcely yet
Can realize the miracle
Which finds me freed from his dreamless spell.

" Then I awoke and saw the room
Tricked out with all the pompous gloom
Of funeral weeds — the air was sick
With incense fumes suspended thick
And blue, as at morn o'er a stagnant lake
Swings the venomous mist ere the winds awake
There I saw two tapers with fiendish glare
Burning in the ghastly air;
And my breast with horrible pain was weighed,
As if by the weight of a black dream made.
I found it was a cross of gold
Which lay on my bosom so heavy and cold —
A cross entwined with lily-bells,
And framed in a wreath of immortelles.
A garland of flame — a cross of fire —
And I outstretched on a martyr's pyre
Had been less terrible! — So at last,
By struggling I grew strong, and cast
These emblems of death from off my breast,
And, breathing, felt no more opprest.

" Then you should have heard the shriek
Of Death's stout wardress! — Pale and weak,
She reeled and tottered beyond the door,
And fell in a fit on the marble floor.
She awoke a maniac — her hair turned gray —
And a maniac she goes to this very day.

" Then the household and the priest came in —
The priest in his robe as black as sin! —
All shuddered and shrank; till I rose and smiled,
When they rushed to my side with wonder wild,
And cried, in their mingled joy and dread —
" She lives! Our Ida is not dead!"