 | In Russet & Silver |  |
53
NEURASTHESIA
Non malattia mortale,
Mà fu celeste forza;
Non propria ellitione,
Mà un impeto fatal.
Sperone.
Mà fu celeste forza;
Non propria ellitione,
Mà un impeto fatal.
Sperone.
Curs'd from the cradle and awry they come,
Masking their torment from a world at ease;
On eyes of dark entreaty, vague and dumb,
They bear the stigma of their souls' disease.
Masking their torment from a world at ease;
On eyes of dark entreaty, vague and dumb,
They bear the stigma of their souls' disease.
Bewildered by the shadowy ban of birth,
They learn that they are not as others are,
Till some go mad, and some sink prone to earth,
And some push stumbling on without a star;
They learn that they are not as others are,
Till some go mad, and some sink prone to earth,
And some push stumbling on without a star;
And some, of sterner mould, set hard their hearts,
To act the dreadful comedy of life,
And wearily grow perfect in their parts;—
But all are wretched and their years are strife.
To act the dreadful comedy of life,
And wearily grow perfect in their parts;—
But all are wretched and their years are strife.
54
The common cheer that animates mankind,
The tender general comfort of the race,
To them is colour chattered to the blind,
A book held up against a sightless face.
The tender general comfort of the race,
To them is colour chattered to the blind,
A book held up against a sightless face.
Like sailors drifting under cliffs of steel,
Whose fluttering magnets leap with lying poles,
They doubt the truth of every law they feel,
And Death yawns for them if they trust their souls.
Whose fluttering magnets leap with lying poles,
They doubt the truth of every law they feel,
And Death yawns for them if they trust their souls.
The loneliest creatures in the wash of air,
They search the world for solace, but in vain;
No priest rewards their confidence with prayer,
And no physician remedies their pain.
They search the world for solace, but in vain;
No priest rewards their confidence with prayer,
And no physician remedies their pain.
Ah! let us spare our wrath for these, forlorn,
Nor chase a bubble on the intolerant wave;
Let pity quell the gathering storm of scorn,
And God, who made them so, may soothe and save.
Nor chase a bubble on the intolerant wave;
Let pity quell the gathering storm of scorn,
And God, who made them so, may soothe and save.
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