Frederick George Scott (7 April 1861 – 19 January 1944 / Montreal)
Plunged in night, I sit alone
Eyeless on this dungeon stone,
Naked, shaggy, and unkempt,
Dreaming dreams no soul hath dreamt.
Rats and vermin round my feet
Play unharmed, companions sweet;
Spiders weave me overhead
Silken curtains for my bed.
Day by day the mould I smell
Of this fungus-blistered cell;
Nightly in my haunted sleep
O'er my face the lizards creep.
Gyves of iron scrape and burn
Wrists and ankles when I turn,
And my collared neck is raw
With the teeth of brass that gnaw.
God of Israel, canst Thou see
All my fierce captivity?
Do Thy sinews feel my pains?
Hearest Thou the clanking chains?
Thou who madest me so fair,
Strong and buoyant as the air,
Tall and noble as a tree,
With the passions of the sea,
Swift as horse upon my feet,
Fierce as lion in my heat,
Rending, like a wisp of hay,
All that dared withstand my way,
Canst Thou see me through the gloom
Of this subterranean tomb, --
Blinded tiger in his den,
Once the lord and prince of men?
Clay was I; the potter Thou
With Thy thumb-nail smooth'dst my brow,
Rolltdst the spittle-moistened sands
Into limbs between Thy hands.
Thou didst pour into my blood
Fury of the fire and flood,
And upon the boundless skies,
Thou didst first unclose my eyes.
And my breath of life was flame,
God-like from the source it came,
Whirling round like furious wind,
Thoughts upgathered in the mind.
Strong Thou mad'st me, till at length
All my weakness was my strength;
Tortured am I, blind and wrecked,
For a faulty architect.
From the woman at my side,
Was I woman-like to hide
What she asked me, as if fear
Could my iron heart come near?
Nay, I scorned and scorn again
Cowards who their tongues restrain;
Cared I no more for Thy laws
Than a wind of scattered straws.
When the earth quaked at my name
And my blood was all aflame,
Who was I to lie, and cheat
Her who clung about my feet?
From Thy open nostrils blow
Wind and tempest, rain and snow;
Dost Thou curse them on their course,
For the fury of their force?
Tortured am I, wracked and bowed,
But the soul vvithin is proud;
Dungeon fetters cannot still
Forces of the tameless will.
Israel's God, come down and see
All my fierce captivity;
Let Thy sinews feel my pains,
With Thy fingers lift my chains,
Then, with thunder loud and wild,
Comfort Thou Thy rebel child,
And with lightning split in twain
Loveless heart and sigthtless brain.
Give me splendour in my death --
Not this sickening dungeon breath,
Creeping down my blood like slime,
Till it wastes me in my prime.
Give me back for one blind hour,
Half my former rage and power,
And some giant crisis send,
Meet to prove a hero's end.
Then, O God, Thy mercy show --
Crush him in the overthrow
At whose life they scorn and point,
By its greatness out of joint.
Comments about this poem (Samson by Frederick George Scott )
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