Alas! even then the brightness of my life Again grew dim; my fount of joy was dried; My soul was doomed to bear a heavier strife Than it had borne!--my children at my side In their meek, loving beauty, drooped and died-- First they, and then their mother! Did I weep? No, tears are not for griefs intense and deep! Ah me! those weary days, those painful nights, When voices from the dead were in mine ear, And I had visions of my lost delights, And saw the lovely and the loving near, Then woke and knew my home so dim and drear! What marvel if I prayed that I might die, In my soul’s great, unchastened misery! I had known sorrow, and remorse, and shame, But never knew I misery till that time; And in my soul sprang up the torturing blame, That they had died for my unpardoned crime! Then madness followed; and my manhood’s prime Passed like a dark and hideous dream away, Without a memory left of night or day. I dwelt within my childhood’s home, and yet I wist not of each dear familiar place; My soul was in a gloomy darkness set, Engulphed in deadness for a season’s space. At length light beamed; a ray of heavenly grace Upon my bowed and darkened spirit lay, Healing its wounds and giving power to pray. I rose a sorrowing man, and yet renewed; Resigned, although abashed to the dust; I felt that God was righteous, true, and good, And though severe in awful judgment, just; Therefore in him I put undoubting trust, And walked once more among my fellow-men, Yet in their vain joys mingling not again. My home was still a solitude; none sought Nor found in me companion; yet I pined For something which might win my weary thought From its deep anguish; some strong, generous mind, Round which my lorn affections might be twined: Some truthful heart on which mine own might lean, And still from life some scattered comfort glean. The dead, alas! I sorrowed for the dead, Until well-nigh my madness had returned; Till memory of them grew a thing of dread, And therefore towards a living friend I yearned, My brother! then my soul unto thee turned; Then pined I for thy spirit’s buoyant play, Like the chained captive for the light of day! The kindness of his youth came back to me; I saw his form in visions of the night; I seemed to hear his footsteps light and free Upon my floors; the memoried delight Of his rich voice came back with sweeter might! Perchance ’twas madness--so I often thought, For with insatiate zeal in me it wrought.