ODE, WRITTEN ON WHIT-MONDAY. HARK! how the merry bells ring jocund round, And now they die upon the veering breeze; Anon they thunder loud Full on the musing ear. Wafted in varying cadence, by the shore An ancient holiday. And, lo! the rural revels are begun, And gaily echoing to the laughing sky, Resounds the voice of Mirth. Alas! regardless of the tougue of Fate, That tells them 'tis but as an hour since they, And that another hour, and they must fall Beneath the silent sod, A cold and cheerless sleep. Yet why should thoughts like these intrude to scare A transient visitor? Mortals! be gladsome while ye have the power, In time the bell will toll That warns ye to your graves. I to the woodland solitude will bend My lonesome way- where Mirth's obstreperous shout Shall not intrude to break The meditative hour There will I ponder on the state of man, Joyless and sad of heart, and consecrate To sad Reflection's shrine; And I will cast my fond eye far beyond This world of care, to where the steeple loud Where I shall sleep in peace. CANZONET. I. MAIDEN! wrap thy mantle round thee, Why should Horror's voice astound thee? All under the tree Thy bed may be, And thou mayest slumber peacefully. Maiden! II. 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 SOME to Aonian lyres of silver sound 'Tis then that Hope with sanguine eye Roving through Fancy's gay futurity; is seen Her heart light dancing to the sounds of pleasure, 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, 'Tis wan Despair I sing; if sing I can Of him before whose blast the voice of Song, Howls forth his sufferings 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, Of lyre Æolian, or the martial bugle, Calling the hero to the field of glory, And firing him with deeds of high emprise, Who dares to sound the hollow tones of horror. 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! Leap from the lake, and join the dreadful song. |