A demon, querulous and sombre-browed,Stalked like a blighting mildew at my side,And cried, "What good—what good!"
Oh! I had crowds of friends, and they were true;Lovers were mine, none could be better loved,Yet, like chaste Diane, in the ether blue,I walked amid their incense all unmoved.Cold I was not, for, forth from all the crowd,Some few in my affections foremost stood,And with an open hand my gift I poured;But still the demon cried, "What good!"
In youthful eagerness to soothe distressMy hand was ever open for relief,And if true prayers had Heaven's power to bless,My loves and sorrows had been very brief.But as a man walks in the sun, yet feelsA damp cold breath as from a murky wood,So 'mid prosperity, still at my heels,Came the dull cry—"What good!"
Hoarser and more impatient grew the cry,As up life's hill ascended my strong feet,Until it seemed as if the earth and skyIn fearful echoes did the words repeat.Embittered all the sources of my peace,Hopeless, defiant with blind wrath, I stood,And bade the fearful thing its horror cease.But still it cried the more—"What good!"
153
