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Marguerite; or, The Isle of Demons and Other Poems cover

Marguerite; or, The Isle of Demons and Other Poems

Chapter 13: BOUND TO THE WHEEL.
By George Martin
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Poetry

About This Book

A varied collection of lyric and narrative verse centered on a long romantic legend about a woman’s ordeal on a haunted island and its personal and moral aftermath, accompanied by shorter sonnets, ballads, and occasional pieces. Many poems draw on Canadian history and local scenes, offering meditative nature writing, urban sketches of Montreal and Ottawa life, winter and carnival scenes, elegies and civic tributes, and moral or humorous vignettes about everyday people. Themes of love, exile, faith, memory, and social concern recur across diverse forms and voices, blending personal reflection with regional colour and historic atmosphere.

BOUND TO THE WHEEL.

I. Must I grind in this prison for ever? No respite from morn till night; Shall I never again, oh, never! Commune with the spirits of light That dwell by the crystalline river Which flows by the Sibylline height?— Which sings near the Sibylline height?
II. I sigh for that region romantic, Far away from the turmoil and strife Of cities that render men frantic In a desperate struggle for life; For ’tis here that ambition gigantic Cuts into the heart like a knife,— Lies cold on the heart like a knife.
III. There Beauty sits thronéd in glory, The bards kiss her brow and adore, Then tell to the world the sweet story That millions repeat evermore; The youth and the patriarch hoary Bend over the musical lore,— Never tire of the mystical lore.
IV. It is there the perpetual graces, Inhabiting bowers of bliss, Give welcome to wearisome faces That ’scape from a region like this, A world in whose gaudiest places The serpent is sure to hiss,— The black-crested serpent will hiss.
V. I know now the fate of Ixion As I never could know it before; And under the eyes of Orion,— Storm-bound on a desolate shore,— Or under the paws of the Lion, I sigh for the sorrows he bore;— I know, too, what Sisyphus bore.
VI. Must I grind in this dungeon for ever! Will the day of release never dawn? Come, spirits of light, and deliver My soul which I ventured to pawn; Oh, bear her away to the river That flows by the Sibylline lawn,— The sylph-haunted Sibylline lawn.