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
Of the still twinkling river, they bespeak
A day of jubilee,

An ancient holiday.

And, lo! the rural revels are begun,

And gaily echoing to the laughing sky,
On the smooth-shaven green,

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
Like those who went before, and sleep as still

Beneath the silent sod,

A cold and cheerless sleep.

Yet why should thoughts like these intrude to scare
The vagrant Happiness, when she will deign
To smile upon us here,

A transient visitor?

Mortals! be gladsome while ye have the power,
And laugh and seize the glittering lapse of joy;

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
This day of jubilee

To sad Reflection's shrine;

And I will cast my fond eye far beyond

This world of care, to where the steeple loud
Shall rock above the sod,

Where I shall sleep in peace.

CANZONET.

I.

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 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
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

Roving through Fancy's gay futurity;

is seen

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 sufferings 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 him 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 through hell's high vault,
And the remotest spirits of the deep

Leap from the lake, and join the dreadful song.