The Camden Journal

POETRY.
For the Camden Journal.
There is a blank within the soul, a void within the heart,
A struggle for a feeling that life cannot impart;
Thick clouds of darkness hang above and shrouds all hope in gloom,
And sorrow kills each budding thought, and makes the mind a tomb.
No tempest rules the sinking heart, no passion leaves its lair,
But sullen silence holds it back, in motionless despair;
And madness would be welcome, or death would shed a light,
Where doubt and darkness keep the soul in everlasting night.
Vain is each wish that lifts the sight to rest on some bright spot,
For all around is desolate, forgetful and forgot;
Tears have a feeling in them, like morning dews to earth,
They shed a moisture on the soul, expelling all its dearth.
But when the clouds are hanging beneath a burning sky,
The flowers and the foliage must wither, fade and die;
Tears are the outlet of the heart, when filled with deepest woe,
But when a stream is stagnant its waters cannot flow.
The eagle feels the arrow that brings him from the sky,
And takes a last sad look at those scenes that quit his quivering eye;
His lofty spirit wou'd rise where power gave it birth,
But vain the struggle with the weight that crushes him to earth.
Man hath an eagle spirit too, that makes its boldest flight,
Amid those stars that brightly shine upon his path their light;
But smite his spirit in its course, and hurl it back again,
A sigh will tell its ruin, where sorrow marked its reign.
J. D. A******
Middle Salem, S. C.