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When high romance o'er every wood and stream

Dark lustre shed, my infant mind to fire, . Spell-struck, and fill'd with many a wondering

dream, First in the groves I woke the pensive lyre. All there was mystery then, the gust that woke

The midnight echo was a spirit's dirge, And unseen fairies would the moon invoke

To their light morrice by the restless surge. Now to my sober'd thought with life's false smiles,

Too much' . . .
The vagrant Fancy spreads no more her wiles,

And dark forebodings now my bosom fill.

Once more, and yet once more,

I give unto my harp a dark woven lay; I heard the waters roar,

I heard the flood of ages pass away.
O thou, stern spirit, who dost dwell

In thine eternal cell,
Noting, gray chronicler! the silent years,

I saw thee rise,– I saw the scroll complete;
Thou spakest, and at thy feet

The universe gave way.

FRAGMENT OF AN ECCENTRIC DRAMA.

WRITTEN AT A VERY EARLY AGE.

THE DANCE OF THE CONSUMPTIVES.

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.

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.

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, ha

bited 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 mortals' 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 smooth 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 smooth 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 smooth the way for me;
And the grass shall wave

O'er many a grave,
Where youth and beauty sleep together.

MELANCHOLY.
Hist, sister, hist! who comes here?
Oh! I know her by that tear,
By that blue eye's languid glare,
By her skin, and by her hair :

She is mine,

And she is thine,
Now the deadliest draught prepare.

CONSUMPTION.
In the dismal night air dress’d,
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 deflower'd her eye.

[They vanish. While Consumption speaks, Angelina enters.

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