BY HENRY J. FINN


My spirit hath been seared, as though the lightning's scathe had rent,
In the swiftness of its wrath, through the midnight firmament,
The darkly deepening clouds; and the shadows dim and murky
Of destiny are on me, for my dinner's naught but--_turkey_.

The chords upon my silent lute no soft vibrations know,
Save where the meanings of despair--out-breathings of my woe--
Tell of the cold and selfish world. In melancholy mood,
The soul of genius chills with only--_fourteen cords of wood_.

The dreams of the deserted float around my curtained hours,
And young imaginings are as the thorns bereft of flowers;
A wretched outcast from mankind, my strength of heart has sank
Beneath the evils of--_ten thousand dollars in the bank_.

This life to me a desert is, and kindness, as the stream
That singly drops upon the waste where burning breezes teem;
A banished, blasted plant, I droop, to which no freshness lends
Its healing balm, for Heaven knows, I've but--_a dozen friends_.

And Sorrow round my brow has wreathed its coronal of thorns;
No dewy pearl of Pleasure my sad sunken eyes adorns;
Calamity has clothed my thoughts, I feel a bliss no more,--
Alas! my wardrobe now would only--_stock a clothing store_.

The joyousness of Memory from me for aye hath fled;
It dwells within the dreary habitation of the dead;