BEREAVEMENT.

How stern are the woes of the desolate mourner

As he bends in still grief o'er the hallowèd bier, As enanguished he turns from the laugh of the scorner, And drops to perfection's remembrance a tear; When floods of despair down his pale cheeks are streaming, When no blissful hope on his bosom is beaming,

Or, if lulled for awhile, soon he starts from his dreaming,
And finds torn the soft ties to affection so dear.

Ah! when shall day dawn on the night of the grave,
Or summer succeed to the winter of death?
Rest awhile, hapless victim! and Heaven will save
The spirit that faded away with the breath.
Eternity points, in its amaranth bower

Where no clouds of fate o'er the sweet prospect lour,
Unspeakable pleasure, of goodness the dower,

1808.

When woe fades away like the mist of the heath.

THE WANDERING JEW.

STILL like the scathed pinetree's height,

Braving the tempest of the night,

Have I 'scaped the bickering fire;

Like the shattered pine which a monument stands

Of faded grandeur, which the brands

Of the tempest-shaken air

Have riven on the desolate heath,-
Yet it stands majestic even in death,

And raises its wild form there.

1809.

ST IRVYNE'S TOWER.

I.

How softly through heaven's wide expanse
Bright day's resplendent colours fade!
How sweetly does the moonbeam's glance
With silver tint St Irvyne's glade !

II.

No cloud along the spangled air

Is borne upon the evening breeze.
How solemn is the scene-how fair

The moonbeams rest upon the trees!

III.

Yon dark grey turret glimmers white;
Upon it sits the mournful owl;
Along the stillness of the night

Her melancholy shriekings roll.

IV.

But not alone on Irvyne's tower

The silver moonbeam pours her ray:

It gleams upon the ivied bower,

It dances on the cascade's spray.

V.

Ah! why do darkening shades conceal

The hour when man must cease to be?

Why may not human minds unveil

The dim mists of futurity?

VI.

The keenness of the world hath torn

The heart which opens to its blast :

Despised, neglected, and forlorn,

Sinks the wretch in death at last.

THE FATHER'S SPECTRE.

I.

GHOSTS of the dead! have I not heard your yelling
Rise on the night-rolling breath of the blast,
When o'er the dark ether the tempest is swelling,
And on eddying whirlwind the thunder-peal passed?

II.

For oft have I stood on the dark height of Jura
Which frowns on the valley that opens beneath;
Oft have I braved the chill night-tempest's fury,

Whilst around me, I thought, echoed murmurs of death.

III.

And now, whilst the winds of the mountain are howling,
O father! thy voice seems to strike on mine ear.
In air whilst the tide of the night-storm is rolling,
It breaks on the pause of the elements' jar.

IV.

On the wing of the whirlwind which roars o'er the mountain
Perhaps rides the ghost of my sire who is dead,—

On the mist of the tempest which hangs o'er the fountain,—
Whilst a wreath of dark vapour encircles his head.

1809.

THE SOLITARY.

DAR'ST thou amid the varied multitude

To live alone, an isolated thing?

To see the busy beings round thee spring,

And care for none; in thy calm solitude,
A flower that scarce breathes in the desert rude
To Zephyr's passing wing?

Not the swart Pariah in some Indian grove,
Lone, lean, and hunted by his brothers' hate,
Hath drunk so deep the cup of bitter fate

As that poor wretch who cannot, cannot love:
He bears a load which nothing can remove,
A killing withering weight.

He smiles--'tis sorrow's deadliest mockery;

He speaks the cold words flow not from his soul;
He acts like others, drains the genial bowl,—
Yet, yet he longs—although he fears—to die ;
He pants to reach what yet he seems to fly,
Dull life's extremest goal.

1810.

DEATH:-A DIALOGUE.

DEATH,

FOR my dagger is bathed in the blood of the brave.
I come, careworn tenant of life, from the grave,
Where innocence sleeps 'neath the peace-giving sod,
And the good cease to tremble at tyranny's nod.
I offer a calm habitation to thee:

Say, victim of grief, wilt thou slumber with me?
My mansion is damp, cold silence is there;
But it lulls in oblivion the fiends of despair.

Not a groan of regret, not a sigh, not a breath,
Dares dispute with grim silence the empire of Death.
I offer a calm habitation to thee :-

Say, victim of grief, wilt thou slumber with me?

MORTAL.

Mine eyelids are heavy, my soul seeks repose,
It longs in thy cells to embosom its woes;
It longs in thy cells to deposit its load,
Where no longer the scorpions of perfidy goad,
Where the phantoms of prejudice vanish away,
And bigotry's bloodhounds lose scent of their prey.
Yet tell me, dark Death-when thine empire is o'er,
What awaits on futurity's mist-covered shore?

DEATH.

Cease, cease, wayward mortal! I dare not unveil
The shadows that float on eternity's vale:

Nought waits for the good but a Spirit of Love
That will hail their blessed advent to regions above:
For Love, mortal, gleams through the gloom of my sway,
And the shades which surround me fly fast at its ray.
Hast thou loved? Then depart from these regions of hate,
And in slumber with me blunt the arrows of Fate.

I offer a calm habitation to thee:

Say, victim of grief, wilt thou slumber with me?

MORTAL.

Oh sweet is thy slumber! oh sweet is the ray
Which after thy night introduces the day!

How concealed, how persuasive, self-interest's breath,
Though it floats to mine ear from the bosom of Death!
I hoped that I quite was forgotten by all :-

Yet a lingering friend might be grieved at my fall;
And duty forbids, though I languish to die,

When departure might heave virtue's breast with a sigh.
O Death! O my friend! snatch this form to thy shrine,
And I fear, dear destroyer, I shall not repine!

1810.

DEATH VANQUISHED.

DEATH! where is thy victory?—
To triumph whilst I die,—
To triumph whilst thine ebon wing
Enfolds my shuddering soul!

O Death! where is thy sting?
Not when the tides of murder roll,

When nations groan, that kings may bask in bliss.
Death! canst thou boast a victory such as this!

When in his hour of pomp and power

His blow the mightiest murders gave

'Mid Nature's cries, the sacrifice

Of millions to glut the grave,

When sunk the tyrant desolation's slave,

Or freedom's lifeblood streamed upon thy shrine,— Stern Tyrant couldst thou boast a victory such as mine?