264
That awful sob of struggling life—
On my strained ear-strings smote.
In desperate fear I madly strove
To start from that witch'd bed,
But on my breast there seem'd up-piled
A mountain weight of lead.
And when I strove to speak aloud,
To dissipate that spell,
I shuddered at the shapeless sounds
That from mine own lips fell.
'Twas then, full filled with fear, I shut
Mine eyes t' escape the gaze
Of that dim chamber's arras'd walls,
With their tales of other days,
Lest ghastly shapes should start from them
To sport in horrid glee
Before my tortured sight—dark scenes
Of their life's tragedy,
And like exulting fiends proclaim
How black man's heart can be.
But visionless scant space I lay
With throbbing downshut lid,
When o'er my brow and cheek, dear Lord!
A clammy coldness slid.
