1864 br br Listless he eyes the palisades br And sentries in the glare; br 'Tis barren as a pelican-beach br But his world is ended there. br br Nothing to do; and vacant hands br Bring on the idiot-pain; br He tries to think--to recollect, br But the blur is on his brain. br br Around him swarm the plaining ghosts br Like those on Virgil's shore-- br A wilderness of faces dim, br And pale ones gashed and hoar. br br A smiting sun. No shed, no tree; br He totters to his lair-- br A den that sick hands dug in earth br Ere famine wasted there, br br Or, dropping in his place, he swoons, br Walled in by throngs that press, br Till forth from the throngs they bear br him dead-- br Dead in his meagreness.