FRAGMENT OF AN ECCENTRIC DRAMA.

WRITTEN AT A VERY EARLY AGE.

In a little volume which the author 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 Shakspeare, 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 handwriting. There is something strikingly wild and original in the fragment.

THE DANCE OF THE CONSUMPTIVES.

I.

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.

II.

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.

III.

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 deathbeds bleak,

Where the green sod grows upon the grave.

(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 mortal's 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 smoothe the way for thee,
Thou shalt furnish food for me.
Come, let us speed our way

Where the troops of spectres play.
To charnel-houses, churchyards drear,
Where Death sits with a horrible leer,
A lasting grin on a throne of bones,
And skim along the blue tombstones.
Come, let us speed away,

Lay our snares, and spread our tether!
I will smoothe the way for thee,
Thou shalt furnish food for me;
And the grass shall wave

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 smoothe 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,

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 deflowered her

eye.

[They vanish.

While CONSUMPTION 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!

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

SIR P. SIDNEY.

Hast thou too felt the pangs of hopeless love,
That thus, with such a melancholy grace,
Thou dost pursue thy solitary course?

Hast thy Endymion, smooth-faced boy, forsook
Thy widowed breast-on which the spoiler oft
Has nestled fondly, while the silver clouds
Fantastic pillowed thee, and the dim night,
Obsequious to thy will, encurtained round
With its thick fringe thy couch ?-Wan traveller,
How like thy fate to mine!-Yet I have still
One heavenly hope remaining, which thou lack'st;
My woes will soon be buried in the grave
Of kind forgetfulness :-my journey here,
Though it be darksome, joyless, and forlorn,
Is yet but short, and soon my weary feet
Will greet the peaceful inn of lasting rest.
But thou, unhappy Queen! art doomed to trace
Thy lonely walk in the drear realms of night,
While many a lagging age shall sweep beneath
The leaden pinions of unshaken time;
Though not a hope shall spread its glittering hue
To cheat thy steps along the weary way.

Oh that the sum of human happiness
Should be so trifling, and so frail withal,
That when possessed, it is but lessened grief;
And even then there's scarce a sudden gust
That blows across the dismal waste of life,
But bears it from the view.-Oh! who would shun
The hour that cuts from earth, and fear to press
The calm and peaceful pillows of the grave,
And yet endure the various ills of life,
And dark vicissitudes!-Soon, I hope, I feel,
And am assured, that I shall lay my head,