In frigid apathy along his way,

And never does the tear of agony

Burn down his scorching cheek; or the keen steel Of wounded feeling penetrate his breast.

E'en now as learning on this fragrant bank,
I taste of all the keener happiness,

Which sense refin'd affords,-Ev'n now my heart
Would fain induce me to forsake the world,

Throw off these garments, and in shepherd's weeds,
With a small flock, and short suspended reed,
To sojourn in the woodland.-Then my thought
Draws such gay pictures of ideal bliss,
That I could almost err in reason's spite,
And trespass on my judgment.

Such is life:

The distant prospect always seem more fair,
And when attain'd another still succeeds,
Far fairer than before,-yet compass'd round
With the same dangers, and the same dismay.
And we poor pilgrims in this dreary maze,
Still discontented, chase the fairy form
Of unsubstantial happiness, to find
When life itself is sinking in the strife,
'Tis but an airy bubble and a cheat.

CANZONET.

1.

MAIDEN! wrap thy mantle round thee,
Cold the rain beats on thy breast;
Why should horror's voice astound thee?
Death can bid the wretched rest!
All under the tree,

Thy bed may be,

And thou mayst slumber peacefully.

2.

Maiden! once gay pleasure knew thee;
Now thy cheeks are pale and deep:

Love has been a felon to thee;

Yet, poor maiden, do not weep:
There's rest for thee,

All under the tree,

Where thou wilt sleep most peacefully.

COMMENCEMENT OF A POEM

ON DESPAIR.

SOME to Aönian lyres of silver sound
With winning elegance attune their song,
Form'd to sink lightly on the soothed sense,
And charm the soul with softest harmony;

"Tis then that hope with sanguine eye is seen,
Roving thro' fancy's gay futurity;

Her heart light dancing to the sounds of pleasure,
Pleasure of days to come.-Memory too then

Comes with her sister, Melancholy sad,
Pensively musing on the scenes of youth,
Scenes never to return*.

Such subjects merit poets us'd to raise
The attic verse harmonious, but for me

A dreadlier theme demands my backward hand,
And bids me strike the strings of dissonance
With frantic energy.

"Tis wan Despair I sing; if sing I can,

Of him before whose blast the voice of song,
And mirth, and hope, and happiness, all fly,
Nor ever dare return. His notes are heard
At noon of night, where, on the coast of blood,
The lacerated son of Angola

Howls forth his suff'rings to the moaning wind;

And, when the awful silence of the night
Strikes the chill death-dew to the murd'rer's heart,
He speaks in every conscience-prompted word
Half utter'd, half suppress'd.-

"Tis him I sing-Despair-terrific name,
Striking unsteadily the tremulous chord

Of timorous terror-discord in the sound:

For to a theme revolting as is this,

* Alluding to the two pleasing poems, the Pleasures of Hope and of Memory.

Dare not I woo the maids of harmony,
Who love to sit and catch the soothing sound
Of lyre Æolian, or the martial bugle,

Calling the hero to the field of glory,

And firing them with deeds of high emprise
And warlike triumph: but from scenes like mine
Shrink they affrighted, and detest the bard
Who dares to sound the hollow tones of horror.
Hence then, soft maids,

And woo the silken zephyr in the bowers
By Heliconia's sleep-inviting stream ;
For aid like yours I seek not; 'tis for powers
Of darker hue to inspire a verse like mine!
'Tis work for wizards, sorcerers, and fiends!

Hither, ye furious imps of Acheron, Nurslings of hell, and beings shunning light, And all the myriads of the burning concave; Souls of the damned,-Hither, oh! come and join Th' infernal chorus. "Tis Despair I sing! He, whose sole tooth inflicts a deadlier pang, Than all your tortures join'd. Sing, sing Despair! Repeat the sound, and celebrate his power; Unite shouts, screams, and agonizing shrieks, Till the loud paan ring thro' hell's high vault, And the remotest spirits of the deep

Leap from the lake, and join the dreadful song.

TO THE WIND,

AT MIDNIGHT.

NOT unfamilar to mine ear,

Blasts of the night! ye howl as now
My shudd'ring casement loud
With fitful force ye beat.

Mine ear has dwelt in silent awe,

The howling sweep, the sudden rush;
And when the passing gale

Pour'd deep the hollow dirge.

THE EVE OF DEATH.

IRREGULAR.

I.

SILENCE of Death-portentous calm,
Those airy forms that yonder fly,
Denote that your void foreruns a storm,
That the hour of fate is nigh.

I see,

I see, on the dim mist borne,

The Spirit of battles near his crest!

I see, I see, that, ere the morn,

His spear will forsake its hated rest,

And the widow'd wife of Larrendill will beat her naked

breast.