 | Women must weep |  |
THE SERPENT'S COILS.
O for an hour wherein to think,
O for the blessèd midnight rest!
And not to tremble on the brink
Of paths that lead me from the blest!
But must I drink,
And must I sink
In gulfs from which returns no guest—
And in the dungeon see no chink
Of sunshine, from the east or west—
And know each day adds on a link—
And must I feel the poison-pest,
Burning like hell within the breast?
O for the blessèd midnight rest!
And not to tremble on the brink
Of paths that lead me from the blest!
But must I drink,
And must I sink
In gulfs from which returns no guest—
And in the dungeon see no chink
Of sunshine, from the east or west—
And know each day adds on a link—
And must I feel the poison-pest,
Burning like hell within the breast?
O for the sweet familiar sound
Of Sabbath bells, from tower and spire!
And not to be a victim ground
For ever lower in the mire,
A prisoner bound,
The weary round
Of torture treading, with the ire
Of vengeance following as a hound
That scents the blood, and cannot tire,
Till what is sought at length is found!
Ah, for the impotent desire,
That must descend, and would aspire!
Of Sabbath bells, from tower and spire!
And not to be a victim ground
For ever lower in the mire,
A prisoner bound,
The weary round
Of torture treading, with the ire
Of vengeance following as a hound
That scents the blood, and cannot tire,
Till what is sought at length is found!
Ah, for the impotent desire,
That must descend, and would aspire!
O for a respite from the pang,
Peace from the secret serpent's coils,
Which round and round the drunkard hang,
With deeper and yet deeper toils,
With biting fang,
Beneath the clang
Of trumpets and the fence of foils,
And satire with its sword-like twang!
From woe that as a cauldron boils,
About which dance the witches' gang,
Which has no salve of holy oils,
And deeply saps and darkly soils!
Peace from the secret serpent's coils,
Which round and round the drunkard hang,
With deeper and yet deeper toils,
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Beneath the clang
Of trumpets and the fence of foils,
And satire with its sword-like twang!
From woe that as a cauldron boils,
About which dance the witches' gang,
Which has no salve of holy oils,
And deeply saps and darkly soils!
O for a hand to loose the chain,
To open the dark door of fear,
Which shuts me in to ceaseless pain,
And those accursèd thoughts that sear—
As God marked Cain—
And leave the stain
That nothing can make clean or clear,
And though the whole wide world I gain,
Or live for many and many a year,
Would still a blotted page remain,
Will never be wash'd out by tear,
Will never hope of mercy hear!
To open the dark door of fear,
Which shuts me in to ceaseless pain,
And those accursèd thoughts that sear—
As God marked Cain—
And leave the stain
That nothing can make clean or clear,
And though the whole wide world I gain,
Or live for many and many a year,
Would still a blotted page remain,
Will never be wash'd out by tear,
Will never hope of mercy hear!
| Women must weep | |