Menken, Adah Isaacs
Carry me out of the host, for I am wounded."
THE battle waged strong.
A fainting soul was borne from the host
The tears robed themselves in the scarlet of guilt, and
crowned with iron of wrong, they trod heavily on the
Bound close to the dark prison-walls, with the clanking
chains of old Error.
Malice and Envy crept up the slimy sides of the turrets to
mark out with gore-stained fingers the slow hours of
The remorseless Past stood ever near, breathing through
the broken chords of life its never-ending dirge.
Yet, Ahab-like, the poor soul lingered on, bleeding and
pining, pleading and praying.
Only through its mournful windows did the yearning soul
Still through the tears did it ever vainly reach outward
some kindred soul to seek.
Unheeding did the ranks sweep by;
And the weary soul sank back with all its deep unuttered
longings to the loneliness of its voiceless world.
Hearing only the measured tread of Guile and Deceit on
their sentinel round.
Wherefore was that poor soul of all the host so wounded?
It struggled bravely.
Wherefore was it doomed and prisoned to pine and strive
It battled to the last. Can it be that this captive soul was
a changeling, and battled and struggled in a body not its
Must Error ever bind the fetters deep into the shrinking
Will there come no angel to loose them?
And will Truth lift up her lamp at the waking?
Shall the cold tomb of the body grow warm and voice
forth all the speechless thought of the soul when the
sleeping dead shall rise?
Will there be no uprising in this world?
O!impatient Soul, wait, wait, wait.