THE EVE OF DEATH. IRREGULAR. SILENCE of death-portentous calm, His spear will forsake its hated rest, And the widow'd wife of Larrendill will beat her naked breast. O'er the smooth bosom of the sullen deep, No softly ruffling zephyrs fly; But nature sleeps a deathless sleep, Not a loose leaf waves on the dusky oak, Behold, how along the twilight air The shades of our fathers glide! There Morven fled, with the blood-drench'd hair, And Colma with gray side. No gale around its coolness flings, And, hark! how the harp's unvisited strings Sound sweet, as if swept by a whispering breeze! "Tis done! the sun he has set in blood! He will never set more to the brave; THANATOS. OH! who would cherish life, Where glooms and tempests cloud the fairest day; And sirens lure the wanderer to their wiles! Hateful it is to me, Its riotous railings and revengeful strife; I'm tired with all its screams and brutal shouts Dinning the ear;-away-away with life! And welcome, oh! thou silent maid, Who in some foggy vault art laid, Where never daylight's dazzling ray Comes to disturb thy dismal sway; And there amid unwholesome damps dost sleep, In such forgetful slumbers deep, Sleepy Death, I welcome thee! Death is the best, the only cure, Carve a stately monument; Then thereon my statue lay, With hands in attitude to pray, And angels serve to hold my head, Weeping o'er the father dead. Duly too at close of day, Let the pealing organ play; And while the harmonious thunders roll, Chant a vesper to my soul: Thus how sweet my sleep will be, Shut out from thoughtful misery! ATHANATOS. AWAY with Death-away With all her sluggish sleeps and chilling damps, How can the soul desire Such hateful nothingness to crave, And yield with joy the vital fire To moulder in the grave! Yet mortal life is sad, Eternal storms molest its sullen sky; And sorrows ever rife Drain the sacred fountain dry— Away with mortal life! But, hail the calm reality, The seraph Immortality! Hail the heavenly bowers of peace, Where the choral seraph choir Strike to praise the harmonious lyre; Oh! to think of meeting there The friends whose graves received our tear, And all the joys which death did sever, Who would cling to wretched life, A sluggish senseless lump to lie, MUSIC. WRITTEN BETWEEN THE AGES OF FOURTEEN AND FIFTEEN, WITH A FEW SUBSEQUENT VERBAL ALTERATIONS. Music, all powerful o'er the human mind, Can still each mental storm, each tumult calm, Soothe anxious care on sleepless couch reclined, And e'en fierce Anger's furious rage disarm. At her command the various passions lie; She stirs to battle, or she lulls to peace; Melts the charm'd soul to thrilling ecstasy, And bids the jarring world's harsh clangour cease. |