The Passing of the Storm, and Other PoemsKing, Alfred Castner
General
The Passing of the Storm, and Other Poems
King, Alfred Castner
Poetry
Some, with reluctant clutch and gasp,
Saw life receding from their grasp;
And some, with stoic countenance,
Maintained a stern indifference,
For what are death's abstruse alarms,
When life is shorn of all its charms;
As zealots, when they come to die,
Lift their enraptured gaze on high,
And clasp to the expiring breast
Some crucifix or icon blest,
And mutter with stertorious breath
Some sacred word or shibboleth,
Then sink expectant and resigned,
As if in death a boon to find,
Some in excruciating pain,
Welcomed its foul destroying breath
And sought from cruel gyve and chain
Emancipation, though in death.
'Tis not my purpose to declare
The horrors which befell us there,
As passed the fatal hours away,
Of that most memorable day.
Each hour increased our dire distress,
Yet found our numbers less and less,
Till when the shadows overspread,
The major number were the dead.
But three survived that awful night,
To gaze upon the morning light;
And when the noonday breezes blew,
That three had been reduced to two;
And ere the setting of the sun
I was the sole remaining one.
A silence strangely mute and dumb
Succeeded pandemonium.
There when my last companion died,
Chained to a corpse on either side,
Strange as may seem the miracle,
I never felt more strong and well,
Nor held my life in less esteem;
In that position most extreme,
By silent death surrounded, I
Enjoyed a weird immunity.
'Twould serve no purpose to recite
My feelings, as approaching night,
With his impenetrable pall,
Descended and enveloped all.
I sat alone in fear and dread,
Chained to the floor,--and to the dead.
A gruesome and revolting sight
Is horrifying in the light,
But when dissembling night conceals,
The breast a double terror feels.
That darkness, black beyond compare,
Seemed a fit mantle for despair.
Few are the words when hope has failed;
An awful quietude prevailed;
I sat, a mute and helpless lump,
And felt my heart's pulsating thump,
With movement regular and strong,
Propel life's crimson flood along,
But made no sound until the spell
Of silence was unbearable.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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