IX. In sickness and in sorrow, how the breast Will garner its affections in their home! Like stricken bird that cowers within its nest, And feels no more an anxiousness to roam; While a thick darkness, like a cloud, comes o'er The gallant spirit;--it can rise no more To wing its way, as if it sought the sky, But falls to earth, forlorn, as though it fell to die. X. And yet, there is a torturing sense of life, E'en in the feeling of the quick drawn breath, That tells of many years of woe and strife, Ekeing our being out, though bringing death: While Fancy, with a thousand thronging tales, Now in her gladness, now in woe, prevails,-- Till the dark moment of o'erwhelming grief, When sorrow mourns as one who cannot find relief. XI. Is health returnless? Never more may I Throw by the staff on which, alas! I lean? Is the woof woven of my destiny? Shall I ne'er be again what I have been? And must th' bodily anguish be combined With the intenseness of the anxious mind? The fever of the fame and of the soul, With no medicinal draught to quell it or control. XII. Upon my brow I feel the furrow's course, Deep sinking inward to the source of thought; The deeper sinking if I seek its source, Or try to crush its agony, unsought, O! tell thy secret, thou stern vampyre, Care! E'en for Philosophy thou hast a snare, For in thy quest she wears the galling chain, Making the burden more, the more she'd soothe its pain. XIII. Sweet solace of the life-lorn! HOPE! to thee How oft in loneliness the heart will turn, To quell the pang of its keen misery; While wailing sorrow weeps o'er memory's urn: Rise from the ashes of my buried years! The past comes up with overflowing tears, To quench the promises that would arise:-- They're in the future far--where are they?--in the skies! XIV. My hopes, e'en my hopes, wither; a dark cloud Has passed between them and the glorious sun, Clothing the breathing being in a shroud-- The pall is o'er them and their race is run: Their epitaph is written in my heart-- The all of mem'ry that can ne'er depart-- Yes, it is here! the truth of every dream, The ever-present thought, in every varying theme. XV. O! who can pierce the cloud that o'er him lowers? It were as vain my wayward fate to scan; Enough, 'twill come with th' onhurrying hours-- The futile purpose or the settled plan: Or Death, perchance, e'en now each tie may sever! There's many a grave in this bright rolling river, That's bounding onward where the one I love, To meet my coming, now, on its far banks may rove.