OF AN

ECCENTRIC DRAMA.

Written at a very early Age,

In a little volume which Henry had copied out, apparently for the press, before the publication of Clifton Grove, the song with which this fragment commences was inserted, under the title of "The Dance of the Consumptives," in imitation of Shakespeare, taken from an Eccentric Drama, written by H. K, W. when very young." The rest was discovered among his loose papers, in the first rude draught, having, to all appearance, never been transcribed. The song was extracted when he was sixteen, and must have been written at least a year before, probably more, by the hand-writing. There is something strikingly wild and original in the fragment.

THE DANCE OF THE CONSUMPTIVES.

1.

DING-DONG! ding-dong!

Merry, merry, go the bells,

Ding-dong! ding-dong!

Over the heath, over the moor, and over the dale,
"Swinging slow with sullen roar,"

Dance, dance away, the jocund roundelay!

Ding-dong, ding-dong, calls us away.

1

2.

Round the oak, and round the elm,
Merrily foot it o'er the ground!
The sentry ghost it stands aloof,
So merrily, merrily, foot it round.
Ding-dong! ding-dong!

Merry, merry, go the bells,
Swelling in the nightly gale.

The sentry ghost,

It keeps its post,

And soon, and soon, our sports must fail! But let us trip the nightly ground,

While the merry, merry, bells ring round.

3.

Hark! hark! the death-watch ticks!

See, see, the winding-sheet!

Our dance is done,

Our race is run,

And we must lie at the alder's feet!

Ding-dong, ding-dong,

Merry, merry, go the bells, Swinging o'er the weltering wave!

And we must seek,

Our death-beds bleak,

Where the

green sod grows upon the grave

A

They vanish-The Goddess of Consumption descends, habited in a sky-blue Robe-Attended by mournful

Music.

COME, Melancholy, sister mine!

Cold the dews, and chill the night:

Come from thy dreary shrine!

The wan moon climbs the heavenly height,

And underneath her sickly ray,

Troops of squalid spectres play,

And the dying mortals groan,

Startles the night on her dusky throne.

Come, come, sister mine!

Gliding on the pale moonshine:

We'll ride at ease,

On the tainted breeze,

And oh! our sport will be divine.

The Goddess of Melancholy advances out of a deep Glen in the rear, habited in black, and covered with a thick Veil-She speaks.

Sister, from my dark abode,

Where nests the raven, sits the toad,

Hither I come, at thy command,

Sister, sister, join thy hand!

I will smooth the way for thee,
Thou shalt furnish food for me.
Come, let us speed our way,

Where the troops of spectres play.

1

To charnel-houses, church-yards drear,
Where Death sits with a horrible leer,
A lasting grin on a throne of bones,
And skim along the blue tomb-stones.
Come, let us speed away,

Lay our snares, and spread our tether!
I will smooth the way for thee,

Thou shalt furnish food for me;
grass shall wave

And the

O'er many a grave,

Where youth and beauty sleep together.

CONSUMPTION.

Come, let us speed our way!

Join our hands, and spread our tether!
I will furnish food for thee,
Thou shalt smooth the way

And the grass shall wave

O'er many a grave,

for me;

Where youth and beauty sleep together.

MELANCHOLY.

Hist, sister, hist! who comes here;

Oh, I know her by that tear,

By that blue eye's languid glare,

By her skin, and by her hair:

She is mine,

And she is thine,

Now thy deadliest draught prepare.

CONSUMPTION.

In the dismal night air drest,
I will creep into her breast;

Flush her cheek, and bleach her skin,
And feed on the vital fire within.
Lover, do not trust her eyes,—
When they sparkle most she dies!
Mother, do not trust her breath,-
Comfort she will breathe in death!
Father, do not strive to save her,-
She is mine, and I must have her!
The coffin must be her bridal bed;
The winding-sheet must wrap her head;
The whispering winds must o'er her sigh,
For soon in the grave the maid must lie.
The worm it will riot,

On heavenly diet,

When death has deflower'd her eye.

(They vanish.

While Comsumption speaks Angelina enters.

ANGELINA.

With what a silent and dejected pace
Dost thou, wan moon! upon thy way advance
In the blue welkin's vault.—Pale wanderer!
Hast thou too felt the pangs of hopless love,

* With how sad steps, O Moon! thou climb'st the skies, How silently, and with how wan a face!

VOL. I.

Y

SIR P. SIDNEY.