 | Poems by Sarah Helen Whitman |  |
162
THE TYPHON.
“Typhon, dread demon from the realms below,
The dark, mysterious cause of every woe,
The racking ague and the fever throe!”
The dark, mysterious cause of every woe,
The racking ague and the fever throe!”
When the green leaves to golden bronze were turning,
And earth lay parched beneath the October sun,
A sullen fever in my veins was burning,
While life and death seemed melting into one.
And earth lay parched beneath the October sun,
A sullen fever in my veins was burning,
While life and death seemed melting into one.
At eventide the cheerful embers glowing
Through the cool chamber turned to fires of doom;
In the white draperies o'er the windows flowing
Lurked sheeted phantoms from the nether gloom.
Through the cool chamber turned to fires of doom;
In the white draperies o'er the windows flowing
Lurked sheeted phantoms from the nether gloom.
Great, gorgon heads and stony faces only
Looked out from all the pictures on the wall;
The quaint sequestered room grew vast and lonely
As the wide vaulted arch of Vathek's hall;
Looked out from all the pictures on the wall;
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As the wide vaulted arch of Vathek's hall;
The walls, now fading into endless distance,
Now narrowing round me to a low-browed cave,
Where in a living death without resistance
I lay as in the hollow of a grave.
Now narrowing round me to a low-browed cave,
Where in a living death without resistance
I lay as in the hollow of a grave.
Strange life in death! that left my soul to wander
Long ages in a dim sepulchral pile,
The legend of forgotten lives to ponder
On footworn marbles of the moldering aisle.
Long ages in a dim sepulchral pile,
The legend of forgotten lives to ponder
On footworn marbles of the moldering aisle.
My vanished years were there—a long succession
Of sultry summers severed by the snows
Of endless winters, while some dark obsession
Forced me to read the record to its close.
Of sultry summers severed by the snows
Of endless winters, while some dark obsession
Forced me to read the record to its close.
Day followed day and night to night succeeded,
And still the powers of darkness reigned supreme;
A smoldering fire the pulse of life impeded,
And all my past seemed one long fever dream.
And still the powers of darkness reigned supreme;
A smoldering fire the pulse of life impeded,
And all my past seemed one long fever dream.
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Then the foul Typhon fled. A wondrous glory
Flooded the world with health's returning tide,
And all the sorrows of life's mystic story
Were but as wandering clouds through moonlit heavens that glide.
Flooded the world with health's returning tide,
And all the sorrows of life's mystic story
Were but as wandering clouds through moonlit heavens that glide.
I865.
| Poems by Sarah Helen Whitman | |