Page:Poems By Chauncy Hare Townshend.djvu/37

 A DRAMATIC ODE. 17 Sleep, such as he no more shall know, When Reason wakes his soul to woe. Why do we linger ? haste ! begin ! Destiny, the thread doth spin ! Fear. By the vague, uncertain dread, Of Fancy born, by Anguish bred, Which knows not what, or where to fly, Worse than worst reality: By the pressure of e heart, ' By the poignant thrills that dart From that citadel of flame, Like lightning, o'er the shivering frame: By the busy, restless brain, Admonished by the past in vain, Which pries into the future still, Combining each wild form of ill; By th' infemai band, who wave Their smoke-stain'd torches o'er the grave; By the dread gulf, that yawns below, Peace he cannot, shall not, know ! By the burning tear, or worse, By the blasting, tearless curse; c  ......... Google

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