Thank Heaven! the crisis-
 The danger is past,
 And the lingering illness
 Is over at last-
 And the fever called "Living"
 Is conquered at last.

 Sadly, I know
 I am shorn of my strength,
 And no muscle I move
 As I lie at full length-
 But no matter!-I feel
 I am better at length.

 And I rest so composedly,
 Now, in my bed
 That any beholder
 Might fancy me dead-
 Might start at beholding me,
 Thinking me dead.

 The moaning and groaning,
 The sighing and sobbing,
 Are quieted now,
 With that horrible throbbing
 At heart:- ah, that horrible,
 Horrible throbbing!

 The sickness- the nausea-
 The pitiless pain-
 Have ceased, with the fever
 That maddened my brain-
 With the fever called "Living"
 That burned in my brain.

 And oh! of all tortures
 That torture the worst
 Has abated- the terrible
 Torture of thirst
 For the naphthaline river
 Of Passion accurst:-
 I have drunk of a water
 That quenches all thirst:-

 Of a water that flows,
 With a lullaby sound,
 From a spring but a very few
 Feet under ground-
 From a cavern not very far
 Down under ground.

 And ah! let it never
 Be foolishly said
 That my room it is gloomy
 And narrow my bed;
 For man never slept
 In a different bed-
 And, to sleep, you must slumber
 In just such a bed.

 My tantalized spirit
 Here blandly reposes,
 Forgetting, or never
 Regretting its roses-
 Its old agitations
 Of myrtles and roses:

 For now, while so quietly
 Lying, it fancies
 A holier odor
 About it, of pansies-
 A rosemary odor,
 Commingled with pansies-
 With rue and the beautiful
 Puritan pansies.

 And so it lies happily,
 Bathing in many
 A dream of the truth
 And the beauty of Annie-
 Drowned in a bath
 Of the tresses of Annie.

 She tenderly kissed me,
 She fondly caressed,
 And then I fell gently
 To sleep on her breast-
 Deeply to sleep
 From the heaven of her breast.

 When the light was extinguished,
 She covered me warm,
 And she prayed to the angels
 To keep me from harm-
 To the queen of the angels
 To shield me from harm.

 And I lie so composedly,
 Now, in my bed,
 (Knowing her love)
 That you fancy me dead-
 And I rest so contentedly,
 Now, in my bed,
 (With her love at my breast)
 That you fancy me dead-
 That you shudder to look at me,
 Thinking me dead.

 But my heart it is brighter
 Than all of the many
 Stars in the sky,
 For it sparkles with Annie-
 It glows with the light
 Of the love of my Annie-
 With the thought of the light
 Of the eyes of my Annie.