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THE EVE OF DEATH.
SILENCE of death—portentous calm,
Those airy forms that yonder fly
That the hour of fate is nigh.
The Spirit of battles rear his crest !
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;
For the hour of battle is nigh.
But a creeping stillness reigns around;
On the ear does unwelcomely sound.
I know what the raven saith -
For this is the eve of death.
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 Alings,
Yet sadly sigh the gloomy trees ;
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;
For to-morrow he hies to the grave.
Oh! who would cherish life,
Love this rude world of strife,
And where, 'neath outward smiles, Conceal’d the snake lies feeding on its prey, Where pitfalls lie in every flowery way,
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,
And there amid unwholesome damps dost
sleep, In such forgetful slumbers deep, That all thy senses stupified Are to marble petrified. Sleepy Death, I welcome thee! Sweet are thy calms to misery. Poppies I will ask no more, Nor the fatal hellebore ; Death is the best, the only cure, His are slumbers ever sure. Lay me in the Gothic tomb, In whose solemn fretted gloom I may lie in mouldering state, With all the grandeur of the great: Over me, magnificent, 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!
Away with Death-away
Impervious to the day,
How can the soul desire
And yield with joy the vital fire
Yet mortal life is sad,
And sorrows ever rife
Away with mortal life!
Where the choral seraph choir
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.