Poems (Taggart)/An Appeal to the Faculty
AN APPEAL TO THE FACULTY
While griefs relentless heavy press,
And sorrow's icy chilliness
Consigns to weary woe and pain,
A hapless sufferer sighs in vain
For sweet relief and balmy rest,
To soothe the tortures of the breast,
And calm the fever of the brain,
Where agonizing tumults reign.
For every pleasing vision flies,
And sleep is banished from the eyes;
That weary, watching, still and still,
See naught but long-protracted ill,
And horror's train of dismal shapes;
While naught the trembling glance escapes
Of Misery's dread, appalling power,
That constantly usurps the hour,
And marks the minutes as they flow
With the dire impress of her woe.
In vain the blessings of relief
Are sought; in vain the child of grief
Seeks aid from drugs that nature boasts,
Amid disease's powerful hosts,
The weary eyes in sleep can close,
And yield the wretched calm repose;—
And pour the sweetly healing balm,
That can imperious pain disarm.
The opiate's once so potent spell
That could the wakeful brain compel,
To quiet sleep no more can bind.
In silent revery, the mind
Pursues its cogitations still,
In spite of the unbending will;
And through the watches of the night,
New pains, with wild and haggard fright,
Combine, and from the pained head
Their direful emanations spread:
Through the whole frame they rending thrill,
And rage unseen with horrid chill:
The nerves unceasing tortures feel,
And madness threats the curse to seal.
The sufferer, doomed to fell despair,
Calls piteous on the friendly ear,
And begs the Faculty to wake,
Another generous effort make,
And search, with thought and skill profound,
If naught in nature can be found
To close the eyes long oped by pain,
And calm the fiercely burning brain,—
The long lost power of sleep restore:
The suing suppliant asks no more!
And sorrow's icy chilliness
Consigns to weary woe and pain,
A hapless sufferer sighs in vain
For sweet relief and balmy rest,
To soothe the tortures of the breast,
And calm the fever of the brain,
Where agonizing tumults reign.
For every pleasing vision flies,
And sleep is banished from the eyes;
That weary, watching, still and still,
See naught but long-protracted ill,
And horror's train of dismal shapes;
While naught the trembling glance escapes
Of Misery's dread, appalling power,
That constantly usurps the hour,
And marks the minutes as they flow
With the dire impress of her woe.
In vain the blessings of relief
Are sought; in vain the child of grief
Seeks aid from drugs that nature boasts,
Amid disease's powerful hosts,
The weary eyes in sleep can close,
And yield the wretched calm repose;—
And pour the sweetly healing balm,
That can imperious pain disarm.
The opiate's once so potent spell
That could the wakeful brain compel,
To quiet sleep no more can bind.
In silent revery, the mind
Pursues its cogitations still,
In spite of the unbending will;
And through the watches of the night,
New pains, with wild and haggard fright,
Combine, and from the pained head
Their direful emanations spread:
Through the whole frame they rending thrill,
And rage unseen with horrid chill:
The nerves unceasing tortures feel,
And madness threats the curse to seal.
The sufferer, doomed to fell despair,
Calls piteous on the friendly ear,
And begs the Faculty to wake,
Another generous effort make,
And search, with thought and skill profound,
If naught in nature can be found
To close the eyes long oped by pain,
And calm the fiercely burning brain,—
The long lost power of sleep restore:
The suing suppliant asks no more!