Page:The Poetical Works of William Motherwell, 1849.djvu/348



That awful sob of struggling life— On my strained ear-strings smote. In desperate fear I madly strove To start from that witch'd bed, But on my breast there seem'd up-piled A mountain weight of lead. And when I strove to speak aloud, To dissipate that spell, I shuddered at the shapeless sounds That from mine own lips fell. 'Twas then, full filled with fear, I shut Mine eyes t' escape the gaze Of that dim chamber's arras'd walls, With their tales of other days, Lest ghastly shapes should start from them To sport in horrid glee Before my tortured sight—dark scenes Of their life's tragedy, And like exulting fiends proclaim How black man's heart can be.

But visionless scant space I lay With throbbing downshut lid, When o'er my brow and cheek, dear Lord! A clammy coldness slid.