Thought.
By Thomas Frederick Young
The blight of life, the demon, Thought - BYRON.
With demon's shriek or angel's voice,
'Mid hellish gloom, or heav'nly light,
Thought haunts our path o'er land and sea,
And dwells with us, by day and night.
In roomy hall, or narrow hut,
It withers, blasts and kills with gloom,
Or gently onward smooths the path
Of him, who gives the tyrant room.
With siren voice it soothes our woe;
It dwells with us in blissful dreams;
But when we wake, it tells us then,
That it is far from what it seems.
Rebellious o'er its prostrate slave,
Its iron chain of bondage swings,
Or, govern'd by a master hand,
In numbers loud and strong, it sings.
And, with its keys of rarest mould,
Its stores of hoarded wealth unlocks,
It dives for man beneath the sea,
And cleaves for him the hardest rocks.
Forever thus it lives and acts,
With angel host, or demon throng, -
To sing with voice of heav'nly love,
Or shout, with dismal, hellish song.
Thus shall it live, thus shall it act,
While ages shall their cycles roll;
It leaves us when we reach the grave
But oh? it rises with the soul.
And still it lives in that beyond,
As here it lives in this our sphere,
To light our road and cheer our path,
Or torture us with nameless fear.