 | Poems |  |
143
TO HYPOCHONDRIA.
Dimly seen in prospective.
I.
Black fiend from source infernal! thouBefore whose frown full many bow
Despondent and forlorn;
Why comest thou to me, I ask,
Dark scowling through thy hellish mask?
Thou imp of Belial born!
At thy approach how dark the world,
Tho' thousand suns should blaze!
The past in dire confusion whirled—
The future all a maze!
And how dark is the mark
To which we mortals steer!
Yea, the grave, where we crave
Forgetfulness sincere.
II.
Thou devil of the brimstone lake,What fiendish pleasure thou must take
In harrowing the mind!
In rending it with unborn wo,
Or bid it wayward roaming go
Some fancied ill to find.
Thou art as inconsistent, too,
As sick-man's dream at night,
Whom night-mare scares with horrors new,
And nameless shapes affright.
Hence, thou fiend! I am weaned
For evermore from thee.
Some thou 'lt scare, but I swear
Thou ne'er shalt frighten me!
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