And next the nightingale was sick
To death,—that songster loved and cherish’d.
That sang to every rose her song;
Through her own poison’s taste she perish’d.
O most accursèd garden! Yea,
It was as though a curse oppress’d it;
Oft was I seized by ghostly fear,
While broad clear daylight still possess’d it.
The green-eyed spectre on me grinn’d,
Terror with fearful mockery vying,
While from the yew-trees straightway rose
A sound of groaning, choking, sighing.
At the long alley’s end arose
The terrace where the Baltic Ocean
At time of flood its billows dash’d
Against the rocks in wild commotion.
There sees one far across the main,
There stood I oft, in wild dreams roaming;
The breakers fill’d my heart as well
With ceaseless roaring, raging, foaming.
A foaming, raging, roaring ’twas,
As powerless as the billows curling
That the hard rock broke mournfully,
Proudly as they their shocks were hurling.
With envy saw I ships pass by,
Some happier country seeking gladly,
While I am in this castle chain’d
With bonds accurst, and pining sadly.
8. APPENDIX TO “LAZARUS.”[87]
I.
Holy parables discarding,
And each guess, however pious,
To these awful questions plainly
Seek with answers to supply us:—