 | [Poems by Whittier in] A Study of Whittier's Apprenticeship as a Poet |  |
THE SYBIL'S CURSE
Scorn not—my curse is with thee now—
A deep and deadly one
'Tis stamped upon the heart and brow,
And may not be undone;
'Tis writ in characters of fire
Upon thy guilty soul,
And will, till life's last pulse expire,
Thy destiny control.
A deep and deadly one
'Tis stamped upon the heart and brow,
And may not be undone;
'Tis writ in characters of fire
Upon thy guilty soul,
And will, till life's last pulse expire,
Thy destiny control.
Go forth! go forth among the gay,
And bow at pleasure's shrine;
And beauty's fairest forms shall lay
Their gentle hands in thine:
But while thy heart is beating high,
That curse shall o'er thee come;
And e'en 'neath beauty's melting eye,
Shall turn thy smile to gloom.
And bow at pleasure's shrine;
And beauty's fairest forms shall lay
Their gentle hands in thine:
But while thy heart is beating high,
That curse shall o'er thee come;
And e'en 'neath beauty's melting eye,
Shall turn thy smile to gloom.
Go forth! and let thy battle cry
Awake the sleep of war;
Go, lift thy sign of triumph high—
An evil-boding star.
But not the robe of regal pride
Or victor's crimson wreath
Though proudly won—shall ever hide
The sleepless curse beneath.
Awake the sleep of war;
Go, lift thy sign of triumph high—
An evil-boding star.
But not the robe of regal pride
Or victor's crimson wreath
Though proudly won—shall ever hide
The sleepless curse beneath.
Go forth and seek forgetfulness,
In revelry and wine:—
Thou shalt forget all, all but this—
This curse shall still be thine:
'Twill haunt thee in thy troubled sleep,
'Twill mingle with thy dreams,
And still with thee unbidden keep
When morning round thee beams.
In revelry and wine:—
Thou shalt forget all, all but this—
This curse shall still be thine:
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'Twill mingle with thy dreams,
And still with thee unbidden keep
When morning round thee beams.
Where'er may thy steps impel
That curse shall on thee rest;
The horrors of a quenchless hell
Shall linger in thy breast.
Not hope itself shall deign to soothe
The anguish of thy doom;
It shall not light—it shall not smooth
The pathway to the tomb.
That curse shall on thee rest;
The horrors of a quenchless hell
Shall linger in thy breast.
Not hope itself shall deign to soothe
The anguish of thy doom;
It shall not light—it shall not smooth
The pathway to the tomb.
Go now—the lingering curse is given—
The spell is laid on thee
The scorn of earth—the wrath of Heaven
Is in thy destiny.
Go now, the spell is laid on thee
Go, bear it to thy grave;
For death alone can set thee free—
And death thou dares't not brave.
The spell is laid on thee
The scorn of earth—the wrath of Heaven
Is in thy destiny.
Go now, the spell is laid on thee
Go, bear it to thy grave;
For death alone can set thee free—
And death thou dares't not brave.
Boston Statesman, April 26, 1828
| [Poems by Whittier in] A Study of Whittier's Apprenticeship as a Poet | |