Pain and Despair

Of all the horrid, hideous notes of woe, Sadder than owl songs or the midnight blast, Is that portentous phrase, “I told you so.”

A solitary shriek, the bubbling cry Of some strong swimmer in his agony.

Alas! our young affections run to waste, Or water but the desert.

Each turned his face with a ghastly pang, And cursed me with his eye.

We listened and looked sideways up! Fear at my heart, as at a cup, My lifeblood seemed to sip.

I bit my arm, I sucked the blood, And cried, A sail! a sail!

Who, doomed to go in company with pain, And fear, and bloodshed, miserable train! Turns his necessity to glorious gain.

I thought of Chatterton, 4 the marvelous boy, The sleepless soul that perished in his pride; Of him 5 who walked in glory and in joy Following his plow, along the mountainside: By our own spirits are we deified: We Poets in our youth begin in gladness; But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.

In which the burthen of the mystery, In which the heavy and the weary weight Of all this unintelligible world, Is lightened.

And homeless near a thousand homes I stood, And near a thousand tables pined and wanted food.

Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure Thrill the deepest notes of woe.

I waive the quantum o’ the sin, The hazard of concealing: But, och! it hardens a’ within, And petrifies the feeling!

Nature’s law, That man was made to mourn.

Can I see another’s woe, And not be in sorrow too? Can I see another’s grief, And not seek for kind relief?

Who ne’er his bread in sorrow ate, Who ne’er the mournful midnight hours Weeping upon his bed has sate, He knows you not, ye Heavenly Powers. 3

No voice divine the storm allayed, When, snatched from all effectual aid, But I beneath a rougher sea, And whelmed in deeper gulfs than he.

But knowledge to their eyes her ample page Rich with the spoils of time did ne’er unroll; Chill penury repress’d their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.

“Enlarge my life with multitude of days!” In health, in sickness, thus the suppliant prays: Hides from himself his state, and shuns to know That life protracted is protracted woe.

Deign on the passing world to turn thine eyes, And pause a while from learning to be wise. There mark what ills the scholar’s life assail— Toil, envy, want, the patron, and the jail.

Of all the griefs that harass the distrest, Sure the most bitter is a scornful jest.

I cannot sleep a wink.

This long disease, my life.

Shut, shut the door, good John! fatigu’d, I said; Tie up the knocker! say I’m sick, I’m dead. The Dog-star rages!

Die of a rose in aromatic pain?