Alas! so sick at heart! My lips are dumb.
Dull inquisition racks the aching brain.
I work no more, but fight the growing pain
Of losing hours. Night of heart! No moonbeams come
To bring thee twilight. Still, ah! still the hum
Of artless industry--the spirit's chain
That binds for life sake. Still the fight for gain
That binds it to th' arena, pale and numb.
And I that hoped to do so much indeed,
To clear a path in spite of time and room,
To sing a song, ah! now I faint, I bleed,
A conquered victim. See the conqueror loom,
A careless frown and sword his only creed,--
And watching close the turning thumb of doom.