 | The poems of Mrs. Emma Catherine Embury |  |
230
FRAGMENT.
Whence come this painful heaviness of soul,
These dark presentiments of coming ill,
These dreams that spurn at reason's sage control,
And these thick-gathering fantasies, that thrill
The spirit with deep fearfulness, and chill
The heart with sudden terror? Are they sent
As portents of the future to fulfill
The dark decrees of fate? or only meant
To sap the strength of mind, man's noblest battlement?
These dark presentiments of coming ill,
These dreams that spurn at reason's sage control,
And these thick-gathering fantasies, that thrill
The spirit with deep fearfulness, and chill
The heart with sudden terror? Are they sent
As portents of the future to fulfill
The dark decrees of fate? or only meant
To sap the strength of mind, man's noblest battlement?
We know not whence they come, nor can we tell
Whither they flee; we only feel their power
Withering our hearts by some mysterious spell,
And stealing o'er us even in the hour
When hope and joy are brightest, till we cower
Before these shadows, as the warrior steed
Undaunted braves the battle's iron shower,
And yet will quiver like a shaken reed,
If through a moonlit wood his onward pathway lead.
Whither they flee; we only feel their power
Withering our hearts by some mysterious spell,
And stealing o'er us even in the hour
When hope and joy are brightest, till we cower
Before these shadows, as the warrior steed
Undaunted braves the battle's iron shower,
And yet will quiver like a shaken reed,
If through a moonlit wood his onward pathway lead.
O, man! how strange a mystery thou art,
The noblest yet the weakest of creation;
Unable to subdue thine own proud heart,
Yet swaying oft the fortunes of a nation.
God-like in thy high attributes and station,
Worm-like in each groveling desire,
Yet even in thy lowliest degradation,
Showing forth glimpses of that heavenly fire
Which, though earth-stained and dim, can never quite expire.
The noblest yet the weakest of creation;
Unable to subdue thine own proud heart,
Yet swaying oft the fortunes of a nation.
231
Worm-like in each groveling desire,
Yet even in thy lowliest degradation,
Showing forth glimpses of that heavenly fire
Which, though earth-stained and dim, can never quite expire.
| The poems of Mrs. Emma Catherine Embury | |