Hypotheses Hypochondriacae[1]

And should she die, her grave should be     Upon the bare top of a sunny hill,     Among the moorlands of her own fair land,     Amid a ring of old and moss-grown stones     In gorse and heather all embosomed.     There should be no tall stone, no marble tomb     Above her gentle corse;--the ponderous pile     Would press too rudely on those fairy limbs.     The turf should lightly he, that marked her home.     A sacred spot it would be--every bird     That came to watch her lone grave should be holy.     The deer should browse around her undisturbed;     The whin bird by, her lonely nest should build     All fearless; for in life she loved to see     Happiness in all things--     And we would come on summer days     When all around was bright, and set us down     And think of all that lay beneath that turf     On which the heedless moor-bird sits, and whistles     His long, shrill, painful song, as though he plained     For her that loved him and his pleasant hills;     And we would dream again of bygone days     Until our eyes should swell with natural tears     For brilliant hopes--all faded into air!     As, on the sands of Irak, near approach     Destroys the traveller's vision of still lakes,     And goodly streams reed-clad, and meadows green;     And leaves behind the drear reality     Of shadeless, same, yet ever-changing sand!     And when the sullen clouds rose thick on high     Mountains on mountains rolling--and dark mist     Wrapped itself round the hill-tops like a shroud,     When on her grave swept by the moaning wind     Bending the heather-bells--then would I come     And watch by her, in silent loneliness,     And smile upon the storm--as knowing well     The lightning's flash would surely turn aside,     Nor mar the lowly mound, where peaceful sleeps     All that gave life and love to one fond heart!     I talk of things that are not; and if prayers     By night and day availed from my weak lips,     Then should they never be! till I was gone,     Before the friends I loved, to my long home.     Oh pardon me, if e'er I say too much; my mind     Too often strangely turns to ribald mirth,     As though I had no doubt nor hope beyond--     Or brooding melancholy cloys my soul     With thoughts of days misspent, of wasted time     And bitter feelings swallowed up in jests.     Then strange and fearful thoughts flit o'er my brain     By indistinctness made more terrible,     And incubi mock at me with fierce eyes     Upon my couch:    and visions, crude and dire,     Of planets, suns, millions of miles, infinity,     Space, time, thought, being, blank nonentity,     Things incorporeal, fancies of the brain,     Seen, heard, as though they were material,     All mixed in sickening mazes, trouble me,     And lead my soul away from earth and heaven     Until I doubt whether I be or not!     And then I see all frightful shapes--lank ghosts,     Hydras, chimeras, krakens, wastes of sand,     Herbless and void of living voice--tall mountains     Cleaving the skies with height immeasurable,     On which perchance I climb for infinite years; broad seas,     Studded with islands numberless, that stretch     Beyond the regions of the sun, and fade     Away in distance vast, or dreary clouds,     Cold, dark, and watery, where wander I for ever!     Or space of ether, where I hang for aye!     A speck, an atom--inconsumable--     Immortal, hopeless, voiceless, powerless!     And oft I fancy, I am weak and old,     And all who loved me, one by one, are dead,     And I am left alone--and cannot die!     Surely there is no rest on earth for souls     Whose dreams are like a madman's!    I am young     And much is yet before me--after years     May bring peace with them to my weary heart!     Helston, 1835.