Page:The Poets and Poetry of the West.djvu/555

 >vn 1850-60.] JOHN G. DUNN. 539 His strong, flesh-rending fingers ! How he starts ! His sinews crack ! His eyes start fiercely out! Now anger rages like the fires of hell ! Now frightful visions clutch his heart, and loud He shrieks for help ! Grim fiends sur- round his couch ; They gain in numbers and in horrid hue ; The walls are full of horrid images ; His bed ghdes 'neath him — every straw a snake ; Foul insects creep and loathsome reptiles cling Around his shrinking limbs ! Water is ofifered — Nay; 'tis flush with snakes, and newts, and scorpions green, Turmoiling in a war of nauseous slime ! The walls are falling — he struggles to be free ; The dreadful forms increase, and closer still. With horrid gibbering and gnashing teeth ! The ceiling crumbles, and his fearful shrieks Thrill horror to the soul ; — he bursts the power Of strong attendance ! — Look ! the win- dow's near ! Clutch him, strong hands ! See how his veined neck Swells up with stagnant blood ; his lips Puff out ; he raves around the room From fearful hidden foes ! Ha ! see that change — His face grows livid — now 'tis black ! He leaps High in the air, and, shrieking wildly, falls, With uprolled, spasmed eyes, and knotted limbs. By fierce convulsions twisted out of form! His lips spout foam ! How hollow is his groan One tremor more — 'tis past ! A soul hath flown ! Hell's minions triumph o'er that house of clay, Built up so wondrously by Word of God ; And hell herself hath triumphed o'er the soul! Soul — body — all — hell's minions here on earth, For lucre's hellish bribe, have murdered thee, Forgotten, lost ! Awake, ye slumbering hearts ! raise voice and arm ! Arouse yon man who folds around his form The robe of sanctity, and sleeps in church. Oh, look not idly on ! I saw his son Look into hell last night ! Wake ! erring soul, Who on the streets did stand, with folded ai'ms. And preach of moral suasion ! Rouse thee up ! Hell's ear is open, but she hath no heart ! Why prate to her ? Why wheedle with her brood ? I saw thy son go staggering through the street ! Hast thou persuaded him, or those who poisoned him ? Blind not thyself, and oh, let others see! Hold, demagogue ! What doctrine dost thou preach ? Thy wealth flows freely to the dens of Death, And poisoned streams flow freely at its touch. Wouldst build upon the wreck of ruined souls ? Are sobs thy music ? is thy banner rags ? Are curses thy devotion, and the tears Of misery thy joy ? Behold ! thy son Now lies a bleeding corse in yonder den.