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, Which sense refin'd affords,-Ev'n now my heart Throw off these garments, and in shepherd's weeds, Such is life: The distant prospect always seem more fair, CANZONET. 1. MAIDEN! wrap thy mantle round thee, Thy bed may be, And thou mayst slumber peacefully. 2. Maiden! once gay pleasure knew thee; Love has been a felon to thee; Yet, poor maiden, do not weep: All under the tree, Where thou wilt sleep most peacefully. COMMENCEMENT OF A POEM ON DESPAIR. SOME to Aönian lyres of silver sound "Tis then that hope with sanguine eye is seen, Her heart light dancing to the sounds of pleasure, Comes with her sister, Melancholy sad, Such subjects merit poets us'd to raise A dreadlier theme demands my backward hand, "Tis wan Despair I sing; if sing I can, Of him before whose blast the voice of song, Howls forth his suff'rings to the moaning wind; And, when the awful silence of the night "Tis him I sing-Despair-terrific name, 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, Calling the hero to the field of glory, And firing them with deeds of high emprise And woo the silken zephyr in the bowers 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 Mine ear has dwelt in silent awe, The howling sweep, the sudden rush; Pour'd deep the hollow dirge. THE EVE OF DEATH. IRREGULAR. I. SILENCE of Death-portentous calm, 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. |