SHADOWS.

Ha! help!—‘ twas palpable!

A ghost that thronged

Up from the mind or hell

Of one I wronged!

‘ Tis past and — silence!— naught!—

A vision born

Of the scared mind o'erwrought

With dreams forlorn:

The bastard brood of Death

And Sleep that wakes

Grim fancies with its breath,

And reason shakes.

Would that the grave could rot

Like flesh the soul,

Gnaw through with worms and not

Leave it thus whole,

More than it was in earth

Beyond the grave,

Much more in death than birth

To conscience slave!