The Cholera-King

By H. W. Ellsworth

Annotations by Kristina Bowers

He cometh! a conqueror proud and strong,
    At the head of a mighty band
Of the countless dead, as he passed along,
    That he slew with his red right-hand[1];
And over the mountain, or down the vale, 
    As his shadowy train sweeps on,
There stealeth a lengthened note of wail
    For the loved and early gone!

He cometh! the sparkling eye grown dim, 
    And heavily draws the breath
Of the trembler who whispers low of HIM,
    And his standard-bearer, DEATH!
He striketh the rich man down from power, 
    And wasteth the student pale;
Nor ’scapes him the maid in her latticed bower[2],
    Nor the chieftain armed in mail.

He cometh! through ranks of steel-clad men,
    To the heart of the warrior-band;
Ye may count where his conquering step hath been,
    By the spear in each nerveless hand.
Wild shouteth he where, on the battle-plain,
    By the dead are the living hid,
As he buildeth up, from the foeman slain,
    His skeleton-pyramid!

There stealeth, ’neath yonder turret’s height.
    A lover with song and lute, 
Nor knoweth the lips of his lady bright
    Are pale, and her sweet voice mute:
For he dreameth not, when no star is dim,
    Nor cloud in the summer sky,
That she who from childhood lovéd him
    Hath laid her down to die!

She watcheth—a fond young mother dear,
    While her heart beats high with pride,
How she best to the good of life may rear
    The first-born by her side;
With a fervent prayer, and a love-kiss warm,
    She hath sunk to a dreamless rest,
Unconscious all of the death-cold form
    That she claspeth to her breast!

Sail ho! for the ship that tireless flies,
    While the mad waves leap around,
As she spreadeth her wings for the native skies
    Of the wanderers homeward bound:
Away! through the trackless waters blue!
    Yet, ere[3] half her course is done,
From the wasted ranks of her merry crew
    There standeth only one!

All hushed is the city’s busy throng, 
    Where it sleeps in the fold of death,
As the desert o’er which hath passed along
    The pestilent simoom’s[4] breath!
All hushed—save the chilled and stifling heart
    Of some trembling passer-by,
As he looketh askance on the dead man’s cart,
    Where it waiteth the next to die!

The fire hath died from the cottage-hearth;
    The plough on the unturned plain
Stands still, while unreaped to the mother earth
    Down droppeth the golden grain!
Of the loving and loved that gathered there,
    Each living thing hath gone,
Save the dog that howls to the midnight air,
    By the side of yon cold white stone!

He cometh! He cometh! No human power
    From his advent[5] dread can flee; 
Nor knoweth one human heart the hour
    When the Tyrant his guest shall be:
Or whether at flush of they rosy dawn,
    Or at noon-tide’s fervent heat,
Or at night, when, with robe of darkness on, 
    He treadeth with stealthy feet!

He cometh! A conqueror proud and strong, 
    At the head of a mighty band
Of the countless dead, as he passed along,
    That he slew with his right-hand:
And over the mountain, or down the vale, 
    As his shadowy train sweeps on, 
There stealeth a lengthened note of wail
    For the loved and early gone!

Ellsworth, H. W. “The Cholera—King.” The Knickerbocker; or New York Monthly Magazine. 39, no. 2 (Feb 1852): 128.