Poems Consisting Of Essays, Lyric, Elegiac, &c. By Thomas Dermody. Written between the 13th and 16th Year of his Age |
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THE SUICIDE.
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THE SUICIDE.
A FRAGMENT.
—Or, what is man?Whose hand, the spirit of conscience throws aside,
With a bare whisper, must the soaring soul,
Still sink to earth, and with the body, feel
Confinement's lashes, penury's chill grasp,
And envy's felon rage!—around me, crowd,
The fiends of horror, press upon my sight,
And still, extinguish Hope's sepulchral lamp!
Ev'n while I sit beneath this blasted thorn,
Whose wither'd branches whistle to the gale,
Remembrance, opens drear, her spectred scene,
And with her shadowy wand marks out the whole!
Mean while Contrition, like an Angel, stands
Behind me, and with fiercer scorpion goads—
How have I fallen! echo it ye caves,
Ye lonely desarts, echo it again,
Augment my sorrows, and ye pealing winds,
Ring the black secret in my startled ear—
Ha! can I bear it?—am I left the butt
Of every idle murmur?—must I shrink
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More eloquent than fancy, print my heart
With bloody dictates!—yet, it must be so,
Till, loosened from this noisome log of clay,
I burst life's barrier—life!—aye, what is that?
A poor, mean, reptile blessing, trod upon
By pow'rs superior, subject to the sneer
Of lesser!—Come then, holy Fortitude!
Holy!—not so,—but in thy gloomiest dress;
Thy deep frown, threat'ning the cælestial seat,
Thy raven-locks, in wild disorder, cast—
Forget not too, thy dagger—lo! thou com'st,
Propensely ready at the wretch's call.
—And, shall I strike?
The nerve is firm, the blade is killing keen,
The troubled bosom, rises to the blow.
—And, shall I strike?
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