The Poetry Corner

The Fever Burns from Morn till Eve.

By W. M. MacKeracher

NOTE. - The following is an attempt to render in verse the passionate words of a young officer in the Indian service, who had fallen a prey to the ravages of the fever. The fever burns from morn till eve; I toss upon my bed; And none but heavy hands relieve My aching, heated head. Harsh voices of hard-hearted men Attempt to sympathize; But sympathy is worthless when Love gives it not its rise. Could thy soft hand but soothe my brain, Thy voice to mine reply, 'Twere rapture then to toss in pain, 'Twere rapture e'en - to die!