The Fever Burns from Morn till Eve.
NOTE.—The following is an attempt to render in verse the passionate words of a young officer in the Indian service, who had fallen a prey to the ravages of the fever.
The fever burns from morn till eve;
I toss upon my bed;
And none but heavy hands relieve
My aching, heated head.
Harsh voices of hard-hearted men
Attempt to sympathize;
But sympathy is worthless when
Love gives it not its rise.
Could thy soft hand but soothe my brain,
Thy voice to mine reply,
'Twere rapture then to toss in pain,
'Twere rapture e'en—to die!
Oh! the Sickening Sensation!
Oh! the sickening sensation!—
Oh! the burning agitation
In my soul!
Oh! the awful desolation
Of my soul!
And my breast is sore with sighing.
Comfort to myself denying—
Comfort and relief denying to my soul distrest and sore;
While that worst of all diseases
With a pain that naught appeases
Ever burns—
While a pain that grimly pleases
Alway burns,
Kindled by thy bright eye's beaming,
By thy brilliant, blue eye's beaming,
When I saw thee, saw and loved thee on that fatal eve of yore;
And anon it has been living,
And a blissful sadness giving
While with thee,—
Mingled bliss and sadness giving
While with thee;
But, ah! now its woful waging,
Laying waste with cruel raging
This my heart, as with a vulture gnawing at its very core!
Would kind angels waft me to thee!—
Waft me for one moment to thee!
Let me gaze one moment on thee!—
But one blissful moment on thee!—
Satisfy this languid longing for the one whom I adore!
Oh! to quench this lethal longing for the one whom I adore!
The Noble Woman.