BYRON AND THE ANGEL
_Poet:_
"Why this fever--why this sighing?--
Why this restless longing--dying
For--a something--dreamy something,
Undefined, and yet defying
All the pride and power of manhood?
"O these years of sin and sorrow!
Smiling while the iron harrow
Of a keen and biting longing
Tears and quivers in the marrow
Of my being every moment--
Of my very inmost being.
"What to me the mad ambition
For men's praise and proud position--
Struggling, fighting to the summit
Of its vain and earthly mission,
To lie down on bed of ashes--
Bed of barren, bitter ashes?
"Cure this fever? I have tried it;
Smothered, drenched it and defied it
With a will of brass and iron;
Every smile and look denied it;
Yet it heeded not denying,
And it mocks at my defying
While my very soul is dying.
"Is there balm in Gilead?--tell me!
Nay--no balm to soothe and quell me?
Must I tremble in this fever?
Death, O lift thy hand and fell me;
Let me sink to rest forever
Where this burning cometh never.
"Sometimes when this restless madness
Softens down to mellow sadness,
I look back on sun-lit valleys
Where my boyish heart of gladness
Nestled without pain or longing--
Nestled softly in a vision
Full of love and hope's fruition,
Lulled by morning songs of spring-time.
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