Songs of the Spirit

And not found Truth. So he would be a saint Whose skeleton lies here because his soul did faint ! I will not turn toward Sodom any more, Lest its ripe glades of fruit waft up their scent, And draw me to them, what time heavens pour Brimstone and fire from out the firmament, And all my substance in its fall be spent ; Lest I lie there beneath a barren sea Forgotten of high God, until there went The final trumpet of the dead, who flee Vainly that fearful blast of judgment. Woe is Me ! My feet, in spite of me, in circles bend ; I meet my own tracks often, all in vain I seek some tower or cliff to make an end, I find no object on the distant plain ; Misty distortions crowd upon my brain, And spectre fountains gurgle on the ground ; I drop to drink, and hear the horrid strain Of chuckling devils, that grimace around, And think I catch the note of Hell’s three-headed Hound. 49