No gale around its coolness flings,

Yet sadly sigh the gloomy trees;

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; Let us pour to the hero the dirge of death, For to-morrow he hies to the grave.

THANATOS.

OH! who would cherish life,

And cling unto this heavy clog of clay,
Love this rude world of strife,

Where glooms and tempests cloud the fairest day;
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,
Who in some foggy vault art laid,
Where never daylight's dazzling ray
Comes to disturb thy dismal sway;

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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.

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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!

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ATHANATOS.

AWAY with Death-away

With all her sluggish sleeps and chilling damps, Impervious to the day,

Where nature sinks into inanity!

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; 10

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 all the storms of passion cease.
Wild life's dismaying struggle o'er,
The wearied spirit weeps no more;
But wears the eternal smile of joy,
Tasting bliss without alloy.
Welcome, welcome, happy bowers,
Where no passing tempest lowers;
But the azure heavens display
The everlasting smile of day;
Where the choral seraph choir
Strike to praise the harmonious lyre ;
And the spirit sinks to ease,

Lull'd by distant symphonies.

Oh! to think of meeting there

The friends whose graves received our tear,
The daughter loved, the wife adored,

To our widow'd arms restored;

And all the joys which death did sever,
Given to us again for ever!

Who would cling to wretched life,
And hug the poison'd thorn of strife;
Who would not long from earth to fly,
A sluggish senseless lump to lie,
When the glorious prospect lies
Full before his raptured eyes?

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MUSIC.

WRITTEN BETWEEN THE AGES OF FOURTEEN AND FIFTEEN,

WITH A FEW SUBSEQUENT VERBAL ALTERATIONS.

1 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.

2 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.

3 Her martial sounds can fainting troops inspire With strength unwonted, and enthusiasm raise; Infuse new ardour, and with youthful fire

Urge on the warrior gray with length of days.

4 Far better she, when with her soothing lyre,

She charms the falchion from the savage grasp, And melting into pity vengeful ire,

Looses the bloody breastplate's iron clasp.

5 With her in pensive mood I long to roam,

At midnight's hour, or evening's calm decline, And thoughtful o'er the falling streamlet's foam, In calm seclusion's hermit walks recline.

6 Whilst mellow sounds from distant copse arise,
Of softest flute or reeds harmonic join'd,
With rapture thrill'd each worldly passion dies,
And pleased attention claims the passive mind.

7 Soft through the dell the dying strains retire,
Then burst majestic in the varied swell;
Now breathe melodious as the Grecian lyre,
Or on the ear in sinking cadence dwell.

8 Romantic sounds! such is the bliss ye give,

That heaven's bright scenes seem bursting on the soul; With joy I'd yield each sensual wish, to live For ever 'neath your undefiled control.

9 Oh! surely melody from heaven was sent,
To cheer the soul when tired with human strife,
To soothe the wayward heart by sorrow rent,
And soften down the rugged road of life.

ON BEING CONFINED TO SCHOOL ONE
PLEASANT MORNING IN SPRING.

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF THIRTEEN.

THE morning sun's enchanting rays
Now call forth every songster's praise;
Now the lark, with upward flight,
Gaily ushers in the light;

While wildly warbling from each tree,
The birds sing songs to Liberty.

But for me no songster sings,

For me no joyous lark upsprings;
For I, confined in gloomy school,
Must own the pedant's iron rule,
And far from sylvan shades and bowers,

In durance vile must pass the hours;

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