THOMAS HOOD.

FOR ANNIE.

Thank Heaven! the crisis,—­
  The danger is past,
And the lingering illness
  Is over at last,—­
And the fever called “Living”
  Is conquered at last.

Sadly, I know,
  I am shorn of my strength,
And no muscle I move
  As I lie at full length,—­
But no matter!—­I feel
  I am better at length.

And I rest so composedly
  Now, in my bed,
That any beholder
  Might fancy me dead,—­
Might start at beholding me,
  Thinking me dead.

The moaning and groaning,
  The sighing and sobbing,
Are quieted now,
  With that horrible throbbing
At heart,—­ah, that horrible,
  Horrible throbbing!

The sickness, the nausea,
  The pitiless pain,
Have ceased, with the fever
   That maddened my brain,—­
With the fever called “Living”
   That burned in my brain.

And O, of all tortures
   That torture the worst
Has abated,—­the terrible
   Torture of thirst
For the naphthaline river
   Of Passion accurst! 
I have drunk of a water
   That quenches all thirst,

Of a water that flows,
   With a lullaby sound. 
From a spring but a very few
   Feet under ground,
From a cavern not very far
   Down under ground.

And ah! let it never
   Be foolishly said
That my room it is gloomy
   And narrow my bed;
For man never slept
   In a different bed,—­
And, to sleep you must slumber
   In just such a bed.

My tantalized spirit
   Here blandly reposes,
Forgetting, or never
  Regretting, its roses,—­
Its old agitations
  Of myrtles and roses: 

For now, while so quietly
  Lying, it fancies
A holier odor
  About it, of pansies,—­
A rosemary odor,
  Commingled with pansies,
With rue and the beautiful
  Puritan pansies.

And so it lies happily,
  Bathing in many
A dream of the truth
  And the beauty of Annie,—­
Drowned in a bath
  Of the tresses of Annie.

She tenderly kissed me,
  She fondly caressed,
And then I fell gently
  To sleep on her breast,—­
Deeply to sleep
  From the heaven of her breast.

When the light was extinguished,
  She covered me warm,
And she prayed to the angels
  To keep me from harm,—­
To the queen of the angels
  To shield me from harm.

And I lie so composedly
  Now in my bed,
(Knowing her love,)
  That you fancy me dead;—­
And I rest so contentedly
  Now in my bed,
(With her love at my breast,)
  That you fancy me dead,—­
That you shudder to look at me,
  Thinking me dead: 

But my heart it is brighter
  Than all of the many
Stars in the sky;
  For it sparkles with Annie,—­
It glows with the light
  Of the love of my Annie,
With the thought of the light
  Of the eyes of my Annie.