404 SKETCHES IN RHYME. 



Fierce spasms shook his muscles, 

 He felt a nameless dread. 



'Twas cider-phobia had him 

 Within its awful grasp. 



He sought his couch in terror, 

 And many a thirsty gasp. 



He prays aloud for Morpheus — 



His prayer naught avails ; 

 His bed seems filled with chestnut burrs, 



His pillow with wrought nails. 

 These prick-like stings of conscience, 



He tosses to and fro. 

 Crying out, " No wretch so suffered 



On earth or down below. 



" Not vulture-gnawed Prometheus, 



Chained to his lonely rock; 

 Nor Tantalus, ever baffled 



By the waters that him mock. 

 Not Ixion, ever turning, 



Snake-bound, upon his wheel ; 

 Nor Sisyphus, ever rolling 



His stone up an endless hill. 



" O is't what folks call conscience 



That makes this night a hell ? 

 O for some incantation 



To break this magic spell. 

 O for some Afric sorcerer, 



Some grim magician's wand, 

 Some ' fetich ' of my fathers. 



From far Apingi land. 



" Come from the mountain, Dinah ! 

 Once chaste Diana called. 



