Poems (Taggart)/Distress

by Cynthia Taggart

DISTRESS.

 There flows from Misery's melancholy pen
No metre, measure, nor consistent prose;
But truth unpolished, misery unfeigned,
Griefs, that a marble heart would melt to hear,—
Would wreck the strongest intellect of man,
With nights of anguish,—struggling strifes unknown.
Sought, but not found, oblivion might allay
The maddening tumult. Peace beheld afar
In the worn meditation, like a foe
Inexorable, mocks the suppliant's prayer;
Nor could the world united rest bestow.
Alas! world, friends, nor kindred,—griefs severe,
Remediless, unpopular and long,
Have power, nor scarcely will, to mitigate:—
For pity vanishes, unless relief
Approximating prove the smile may soon
Supply the place of sympathetic care,
And ease affection of external pain.
For anxious, mourning, deep regret may well
Befit a human heart at intervals;
But joy must thrill between, and woe must change
Its name and its appearance, varying oft;
And hope must smile to keep regret alive,
And bear compassion through her toilsome task.
Then, then, what anguish must the wretched bear,
When friends,—whom health and social converse bless,
To whom sweet sleep returns at wonted hours,
Their minds releases from all active thought,
Soothes and supports with her nutritious balm,
And vigorous leaves to cheerful life anew,—
Find it too painful to lament their woe,
To pause and meditate their sad reverse,
The dying anguish of their nightly hours;
When tortures fierce, instead of balmy rest,
Run riot wild within their wasted forms,
And thought, combined with pain's exhausting power
Resistless pressing every care-worn nerve,
Excites the system to unknown excess,
And racks with more than mortal agony.