FATE.

Oft, as I rest in quiet peace, am I Thrust out at sudden doors, and madly driven Through desert solitudes, and thunder-riven Black passages which have not any sky. The scourge is on me now, with all the cry Of ancient life that hath with murder striven. How many an anguish hath gone up to heaven! How many a hand in prayer been lifted high When the black fate came onward with the rush Of whirlwind, avalanche, or fiery spume! Even at my feet is cleft a shivering tomb Beneath the waves; or else with solemn hush The graveyard opens, and I feel a crush As if we were all huddled in one doom.