 | Poems and Translations |  |
37
APRIL 27TH, 1865.
“Oh, where can I lay now my aching head?”
The weary-worn fugitive sadly said.
“I have wandered in pain all the sleepless night,
And I saw my pursuers' distant light
As it glared o'er the river's waves of blue,
And flashed forth again in each drop of dew.
I've wandered all night in this deadly air,
Till, sick'ning, I drop with pain and despair.”
The weary-worn fugitive sadly said.
“I have wandered in pain all the sleepless night,
And I saw my pursuers' distant light
As it glared o'er the river's waves of blue,
And flashed forth again in each drop of dew.
I've wandered all night in this deadly air,
Till, sick'ning, I drop with pain and despair.”
Go forth! Thou shalt have here no rest again,
For thy brow is marked with the brand of Cain.
For thy brow is marked with the brand of Cain.
“I am weary and faint and ill,” said he,
“And the stars look down so mercilessly!
Do ye mock me with your glittering ray,
And seek, like the garish sun, to betray?
Oh, forbear, cruel stars, so bright and high;
Ye are happy and pure in God's own sky.
Oh, where can I lay me down to sleep,
To rest and to slumber, to pray and weep?”
“And the stars look down so mercilessly!
Do ye mock me with your glittering ray,
And seek, like the garish sun, to betray?
Oh, forbear, cruel stars, so bright and high;
Ye are happy and pure in God's own sky.
Oh, where can I lay me down to sleep,
To rest and to slumber, to pray and weep?”
Go forth! Thou shalt have here no rest again,
For thy brow is marked with the brand of Cain.
For thy brow is marked with the brand of Cain.
38
“To sleep! What is sleep now but haunting dreams?
Chased off, every time, by the flashing gleams
Of the light o'er the stream in yonder town,
Where all are searching and hunting me down!
Oh, the wearisome pain, the dread suspense,
And the horror each instant more intense!
I yearn for rest from my pain and for sleep,—
Bright stars, do ye mock, or, quivering, weep?”
Chased off, every time, by the flashing gleams
Of the light o'er the stream in yonder town,
Where all are searching and hunting me down!
Oh, the wearisome pain, the dread suspense,
And the horror each instant more intense!
I yearn for rest from my pain and for sleep,—
Bright stars, do ye mock, or, quivering, weep?”
Go forth! Thou shalt have here no rest again,
For thy brow is marked with the brand of Cain.
For thy brow is marked with the brand of Cain.
On the marsh's grass, without pillow or bed,
Fell the rain and dew on his fated head;
While the will-o'-the-wisp, with its changeful light,
Led him on o'er the swamp in the darksome night;
And all Nature's voices cried out again,
To the weary fugitive in his pain,—
Fell the rain and dew on his fated head;
While the will-o'-the-wisp, with its changeful light,
Led him on o'er the swamp in the darksome night;
And all Nature's voices cried out again,
To the weary fugitive in his pain,—
Go forth! Thou shalt have here no rest again,
For thy brow is marked with the brand of Cain.
For thy brow is marked with the brand of Cain.
The pursuers are near! Oh, bitter strife!
Youth, more strong than despair, still clings to life.
More near and more near! They find him at last;
One desperate struggle, and all is past,—
One desperate struggle, 'mid smoke and flame,
For life without joy, and darkness and shame.
A prayer ascends to high Heaven's gate
For his soul,—O God, be it not too late!
A ball cleaves the air. ... He is lying there,
Pale, stiff, and cold in the fresh morning air;
And the flames' hot breath is all stifled now,
And the breezes caress his marble brow.
Youth, more strong than despair, still clings to life.
More near and more near! They find him at last;
39
One desperate struggle, 'mid smoke and flame,
For life without joy, and darkness and shame.
A prayer ascends to high Heaven's gate
For his soul,—O God, be it not too late!
A ball cleaves the air. ... He is lying there,
Pale, stiff, and cold in the fresh morning air;
And the flames' hot breath is all stifled now,
And the breezes caress his marble brow.
All sorrow has gone with life's fitful breath.
Rest at last! For thy brow bears the seal of Death.
Rest at last! For thy brow bears the seal of Death.
April 29th, 1865.
| Poems and Translations | |