Stedman and Hutchinson, comps. A Library of American Literature:
An Anthology in Eleven Volumes. 1891.
Vols. IX–XI: Literature of the Republic, Part IV., 1861–1889
The Curse of the Competent; or, The Lay of the Last Genius
By Henry James Finn (17871840)M
In the swiftness of its wrath, through the midnight firmament,
The darkly deepening clouds; and the shadows dim and murky
Of destiny are on me, for my dinner’s naught but—turkey.
Save where the moanings of despair—out-breathings of my woe—
Tell of the cold and selfish world. In melancholy mood,
The soul of genius chills with only—fourteen cords of wood.
And young imaginings are as the thorns bereft of flowers;
A wretched outcast from mankind, my strength of heart has sank
Beneath the evils of—ten thousand dollars in the bank.
That singly drops upon the waste where burning breezes teem;
A banished, blasted plant, I droop, to which no freshness lends
Its healing balm, for Heaven knows, I’ve but—a dozen friends.
No dewy pearl of Pleasure my sad sunken eyes adorns;
Calamity has clothed my thoughts, I feel a bliss no more,—
Alas! my wardrobe now would only—stock a clothing store.
It dwells within the dreary habitation of the dead;
I breathe my midnight melodies in languor and by stealth,
For Fate inflicts upon my frame—the luxury of health.
And a baneful curse clings to me, like the stain on innocence;
My moments are as faded leaves, or roses in their blight—
I’m asked but once a day to dine—to parties every night.
Or but one gleam that’s glorified by each Peruvian’s prayer!
My tortured spirit turns from earth, to ease its bitter loathing;
My hatred is on all things here, because—I want for nothing.