The suffering of the stricken then, Defies descriptive word or pen; I see with memory's vision yet The beads of suppurating sweat Stand on the burning brows of those Smitten with agonizing throes; As racking tortures permeate Each swollen and distorted shape, With thirst which none may mitigate, They call for drink with mouths agape; Yet naught may succor such distress, Save coma and unconsciousness; When these the intellect benumb, The sense and feeling overcome, Within its tuneful cavern hung No longer rests the fluent tongue, But swollen by the pain and drouth, Protrudes from out the parching mouth; The burning and discolored lip Imagined moisture tries to sip; Again they vainly strive to speak Their fevered incoherencies, But vocal organs parched and weak Respond but labored gasp and wheeze. I scent the putrefying air, And see the horror and despair Depicted on the lineaments Of every stricken countenance; I see them writhe, then suddenly, With ghastly leer convulse and die. As stagnant waters generate A fungous and unsightly freight Of morbid scum and slimy moss, Of origin spontaneous; So latent germs, unnoticed, lurk In readiness for deadly work; When these the right conditions find, And spread infection to the wind, Chronologers, both far and near, Record an epidemic year. Within the bounds of our stockade, The plague its foul appearance made, And soon inoculated there, Its virus to the very air, Till e'en the genial summer breeze Seemed a dispenser of disease; Then, as impartial lightnings strike The nobleman and serf alike, Within this filthy prison yard, It smote both prisoner and guard; The difference of race, of lot, Of rank was speedily forgot, As discipline succumbed to dread And officers and soldiers fled, Save such as, fallen by the way, Helpless and unattended lay, Till death brought silence and relief, From agony intense, though brief. Within the walls of the stockade Not one unstricken person stayed, Except some convicts who remained For one good reason:--we were chained. Our dingy quarters, floor and bed, Were filled with dying and with dead; The only shelter we could claim, A fetid lazar-house became. I need not tell you how the air Was filled with accents of despair, How clamor and entreaty smote The air, from blistered tongue and throat, As burning rash and ghastly rheum Supplanted nature's ruddy bloom; How moan and outcry, curse and prayer Were mingled with each other there; Some raved in dialects unknown, Or terms provincial, while the groan, The common tongue of suffering men, Was echoed ever and again.