THE MUFFLED KNOCKER.
��GRIEF ! Grief! 'tis thy symbol, so mute and drear,
Yet it hath a tale for the listening ear,
Of the nurse's care, and the curtain 'd bed,
And the baffled healer's cautious tread,
And the midnight lamp, with its flickering light,
Half screen'd from the restless sufferer's sight ;
Yes, many a sable scene of woe
Doth that muffled knocker's tablet show.
Pain ! Pain ! art thou wrestling here with man ; For the broken gold of his wasted span ? Art thou straining thy rack on his tortur'd nerve, Till his firmest hopes from their anchor swerve ? Till burning tears from his eyeballs flow, And his manhood faints in a shriek of woe ? Methinks, thy scorpion -sting I trace, Through the mist of that sullen knocker's face.
Death ! Death ! do I see thee, with weapon dread Art thou laying thy hand on yon cradle-bed ?
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