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The Fever Burns from Morn till Eve.
By W. M. MacKeracher
NOTE. - The following is an attempt to render in verse the passionate words of a young officer in the Indian service, who had fallen a prey to the ravages of the fever.
The fever burns from morn till eve;
I toss upon my bed;
And none but heavy hands relieve
My aching, heated head.
Harsh voices of hard-hearted men
Attempt to sympathize;
But sympathy is worthless when
Love gives it not its rise.
Could thy soft hand but soothe my brain,
Thy voice to mine reply,
'Twere rapture then to toss in pain,
'Twere rapture e'en - to die!
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