THANK Heaven! the crisis—   The danger is past, And the lingering illness   Is over at last— And the fever called 'Living'   Is conquer'd 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 madden'd my brain— With the fever called 'Living'   That burn'd 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 odour   About it, of pansies— A rosemary odour,   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— Drown'd in a bath   Of the tresses of Annie.

She tenderly kiss'd me,   She fondly caress'd, And then I fell gently   To sleep on her breast— Deeply to sleep   From the heaven of her breast.

When the light was extinguish'd,   She cover'd me warm, And she pray'd 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.