Short Poems

He laughs, but he is sick at heart;
He swears, but he turns deadly pale;
His restless eye and sudden start,—
They tell the dreadful tale
That will be told: it needs no words from thee,
Thou self-sold slave to fear and misery.

Time passes on, and he grows bold;
His eye is fierce, his oaths are loud;
None dare from Lee the hand withhold;
He rules and scoffs the crowd.
But still at heart there lies a secret fear;
For now the year's dread round is drawing near.

He turns, and curses in his wrath
Both man and child; then hastes away
Shoreward, or takes some gloomy path;
But there he cannot stay:
Terrour and madness drive him back to men;
His hate of man to solitude again.

He walks within the day's full glare,
A darkened man. Where'er he comes,
All shun him. Children peep and stare;
Then, frightened, seek their homes.
Through all the crowd a thrilling horrour ran.
They point and say,—“There goes the wicked man!”

Day came again; and up he rose,
A weary man, from his lone board;
Nor merry feast, nor sweet repose,
Did that long night afford.
No shadowy-coming night, to bring him rest,—
No dawn, to chase the darkness of his breast!

“There 's none to meet me, none to cheer:
The seats are empty,—lights burnt out;
And I, alone, must sit me here:
Would I could hear their shout!”
He ne'er shall hear it more,—more taste his wine!
Silent he sits within the still moonshine.

Go, get ye home, and end your mirth!
Go, call the revellers again!
They 're fled the isle; and o'er the earth
Are wanderers, like Cain.
As he his door-stone passed, the air blew chill.
The wine is on the board; Lee, take your fill!

The gull has found her place on shore;
The sun gone down again to rest;
And all is still but ocean's roar:
There stands the man unblest.
But, see, he moves,—he turns, as asking where
His mates:—Why looks he with that piteous stare?

The sun beats hot upon his head.
He stands beneath the broad, fierce blaze,
As stiff and cold as one that's dead:
A troubled, dreamy maze
Of some unearthly horrour, all he knows,—
Of some wild horrour past, and coming woes.

For he 's accursed from all that's good;
He ne'er must know its healing power.
The sinner on his sin shall brood,
And wait, alone, his hour.
A stranger to earth's beauty, human love,—
No rest below for him, no hope above!