Along the lone wood's unfrequented path,
Startling the 'nighted traveller; while the sound
Of undistinguished murmurs, heard to come
From the dark centre of the deepening glen,
Struck on his frozen ear.

Thou art fallen man's best friend!

Oh, Ignorance!

With thee he

In frigid apathy along his way.

[speeds

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 leaning on this fragrant bank,

I taste of all the keener happiness

Which sense refined affords — e'en now my heart Would fain induce me to forsake the world,

Throw off these garments, and in shepherd's weeds, With a small flock, and short suspended reed,

To sojourn in the woodland.

Then my thought

Draws such gay pictures of ideal bliss,
That I could almost err in reason's spite,
And trespass on my judgment.

Such is life:

The distant prospect always seems more fair,
And when attained, another still succeeds,

Far fairer than before, yet compass'd round

With the same dangers, and the same dismay.
And we poor pilgrims in this dreary maze,
Still discontented, chase the fairy form.
Of unsubstantial Happiness, to find,
When life itself is sinking in the strife,
"Tis but an airy bubble and a cheat.

COMMENCEMENT OF A POEM ON DESPAIR.

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 is seen
Roving through Fancy's gay futurity;

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 used to raise
The Attic verse harmonious; but for me

A deadlier 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 murderer's heart,
He speaks in every conscience-prompted word

* Alluding to the two pleasing pocms, the Pleasures of Hope and of Memory.

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,

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
The 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.

COMMENCEMENT OF A POEM ON DESPAIR.

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 is seen
Roving through Fancy's gay futurity;

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 used to raise
The Attic verse harmonious; but for me

A deadlier 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 murderer's heart,
He speaks in every conscience-prompted word

* Alluding to the two pleasing pocms, the Pleasures of Hope and of Memory.

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,

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,

1

Nurslings of hell, and beings shunning light,
And all the myriads of the burning concave:
Souls of the damned:-
:- Hither, oh! come and join
The 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 pran ring through hell's high vault,
And the remotest spirits of the deep

Leap from the lake, and join the dreadful song.