The Fever Burns from Morn till Eve.

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!

W. M. MacKeracher

W. M. MacKeracher was a poet known for his contributions to Canadian literature during the early 20th century. His works often focused on themes of nature, human emotion, and the simplicity of rural life. Though not as widely known as some of his contemporaries, MacKeracher's poetry has been appreciated for its lyrical quality and depth. Much of his work was published in regional journals and anthologies, capturing the essence of Canadian landscapes and the human experience within them. His exact birth and death dates remain obscure.

W. M. MacKeracher

A Library.

W. M. MacKeracher, Simple Poetry

Work.

W. M. MacKeracher, Simple Poetry

Tomakewaw, - A Parody.

W. M. MacKeracher, Simple Poetry

Invocation To Summer.

W. M. MacKeracher, Simple Poetry

English

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Third Song, written during Fever (Three Songs of Zahir-u-Din)

To-night the clouds hang very low,
    They take the Hill-tops to their breast,
    And lay their arms about the fields.
The wind that fans me lying low,
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I, sleepless through the stifling heat,
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I lie and long amidst the heat, -
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    For that cool slenderness of yours.

So delicate and cool you are!
    A roseleaf that has lain in snow,
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You do not know, so young you are,
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Oh! the Sickening Sensation!

        Oh! the sickening sensation!
        Oh! the burning agitation
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        Oh! the awful desolation
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        And my breast is sore with sighing.
        Comfort to myself denying
    Comfort and relief denying to my soul distrest and sore;
        While that worst of all diseases
        With a pain that naught appeases
                Ever burns
        While a pain that grimly pleases
                Alway burns,
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W. M. MacKeracher

To Music, To Becalm His Fever

Charm me asleep, and melt me so
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Away in easy slumbers.
Ease my sick head,
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Thou Power that canst sever
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Though thou not kill
My fever.

Thou sweetly canst convert the same
From a consuming fire,
Into a gentle-licking flame,
And make it thus expire.
Then make me weep
My pains asleep,
And give me such reposes,
That I, poor I,
May think, thereby,
I live and die
'Mongst roses.

Fall on me like a silent dew,
Or like those maiden showers,
Which, by the peep of day, do strew
A baptism o'er the flowers.
Melt, melt my pains
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Famine Song

Death and Famine on every side
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What care have I that the bones bleach white?
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Cholera, Riot, and Sudden Death,
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I hear the sound of a thousand tears,
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I see the fever, folly, and fears
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Rhomboidal Dirge.

                        Ah me!
                    Am I the swain
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        Did all the cares on earth disdain?
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        Then let despair set sorrow's string,
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                        Ah me!

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The Complaint Of A Forsaken Indian Woman

Before I see another day,
Oh let my body die away!
In sleep I heard the northern gleams;
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In rustling conflict through the skies,
I heard, I saw the flashes drive,
And yet they are upon my eyes,
And yet I am alive;
Before I see another day,
Oh let my body die away!

My fire is dead: it knew no pain;
Yet is it dead, and I remain:
All stiff with ice the ashes lie;
And they are dead, and I will die.
When I was well, I wished to live,
For clothes, for warmth, for food, and fire;
But they to me no joy can give,
No pleasure now, and no desire.
Then here contented will I lie
Alone, I cannot fear to die.

Alas! ye might have dragged me on
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Too soon I yielded to despa...

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