(Written in her sixteenth year.) <br /> <br />The sky is pure, the clouds are light, <br />The moonbeams glitter cold and bright; <br />O'er the wide landscape breathes no sigh; <br />The sea reflects the star-gemm'd sky, <br />And every beam of Heav'n's broad brow <br />Glows brightly on the world below. <br />But ah! the wing of death is spread; <br />I hear the midnight murd'rers tread; — <br />I hear the Plague that walks at night, <br />I mark its pestilential blight; <br />I feel its hot and with'ring breath, <br />It is the messenger of death! — <br />And can a scene so pure and fair <br />Slumber beneath a baleful air? <br />And can the stealing form of death <br />Here wither with its blighting breath? <br />Yes; and the slumb'rer feels its power <br />At midnight's dark and silent hour; <br />He feels the wild fire thro' his brain; <br />He wakes; his frame is rack'd with pain; <br />His eye half closed; his lip is dark; <br />The sword of death hath done his work; <br />That sallow cheek, that fever'd lip, <br />That eye which burns but cannot sleep, <br />That black parch'd tongue, that raging brain, <br />All mark the monarch's baleful reign! <br /> <br />Oh! for one pure, one balmy breath, <br />To cool the sufferer's brow in death; <br />Oh! for one wand'ring breeze of Heav'n; <br />Oh that one moment's rest were giv'n! <br />'T is past; — and hush'd the victim's prayer; <br />The spirit was — but is not there!<br /><br />Lucretia Maria Davidson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-yellow-fever/
