Page:Livingstone in Africa.djvu/113

Joy only masketh the wan face of woe.
For not alone here fever's mortal breath
Chills all exultant ardours of the brave;
Slackens bent bows of young impetuous lives,
Baffling the swift-wing'd arrows of their aim;
Veils youthful eyes in languorous impotence,
So that they love no more fair life than death.
But there is worse than treacherous-soul'd Miasma,
Lurking for prey, close-mask'd in orient glory,
Enveloping a man with subtle folds
Of dull impalpable mortality.
Sin is a deadlier malady than all!
These flowers are only strewn upon a corpse.
Man has made Earth a hissing and a scorn
Among the constellated worlds of light!
And here the plague-spot is the loathliest.

I have come to pleasant places on my way:
Angels beholding might be lured from heaven!
And in the course of my long wandering
I have return'd once more to visit them.