4596755Poems — The Yellow FeverLucretia Maria Davidson
THE YELLOW FEVER.
The sky is pure, the clouds are light, The moonbeams glitter cold and bright; O'er the wide landscape breathes no sigh; The sea reflects the star-gemmed sky, And every beam of heaven's broad brow Glows brightly on the world below. But ah! the wing of death is spread; I hear the midnight murderers' tread; I hear the Plague that walks at night, I mark its pestilential blight; I feel its hot and withering breath, It is the messenger of death! And can a scene so pure and fair Slumber beneath a baneful air? And can the stealing form of death Here wither with its blighting breath? Yes; and the slumberer feels its power At midnight's dark and silent hour. He feels the wild-fire through his brain; He wakes; his frame is racked with pain; His eye half closed; his lip is dark; The sword of death hath done his work! That sallow cheek, that fevered lip, That eye which burns but cannot sleep, That black parched tongue, that raging brain, All mark the monarch's baleful reign! O! for one pure, one balmy breath, To cool the sufferer's brow in death; O! for one wandering breeze of heaven; O that one moment's rest were given! 'Tis past; and hushed the victim's prayer; The spirit was—but is not there!
