There Morven fled, with the blood-drenched hair, And Colma with gray side. 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; THANATOS. OH! who would cherish life, And cling unto this heavy clog of clay- Where glooms and tempests cloud the fairest day! Concealed, the snake lies feeding on its prey, 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, And welcome, oh! thou silent maid, And there amid unwholesome damps doth sleep, In such forgetful slumbers deep, That all thy senses stupified, Are to marble petrified. POEMS OF Sleepy Death, I welcome thee! Carve a stately monument; With hands in attitude to pray, And angels serve to hold my head, 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 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! |