THE DEMONIAC.

Great God! and must I, must I live,

And can I never die,

I whom the press of sorrow’s hand

Hurled headlong from the sky?

How long, O Lord, must I thus wait,

How long in blasting blight,

Each idle day imploring death,

And dreaming death each night?

Each hour I fill some heart with woe,

And blast some heart with mine!

To me ’tis living death to know

My heart stills poisoned wine!

Ten million, million deaths I live

Each wasting, poisoned hour;

For, whom I love my presence damns—

I blight each blooming flower.

Oh that the grinning skeleton

This faithless flesh doth hold

Might lay its lying mantle off

To dream on downs of mould!

The leaf must fade, the sun must set,

The sweetest day must die;

But Death, Decay, and Woe must live,—

And so, and so must I!

Oh days to me are lengthened years,

The years like ages creep;

I’ve tossed ten million centuries

On life’s unfathomed deep!

I’ve seen the crawling sea-weed rot

In slime upon that sea,

And slimy things find birth therein

To live in death, like me.

I find no peace, I know no rest,

My very self I fly;—

Unfit to love, unfit to live,

And far less fit to die!