"Tis then that hope with sanguine eye is seen, Her heart light dancing to the sounds of pleasure, Pensively musing on the scenes of youth, Such subjects merit poets us'd to raise A dreadlier theme demands my backward hand, 'Tis wan Despair I sing; if sing I can, Of him before whose blast the voice of song, Howls forth his suff'rings to the moaning wind; "Tis him I sing-Despair- terrific name, Of timorous terror-discord in the sound: For to a theme revolting as is this, * Alluding to the two pleasing poems, the Pleasures of Hope and of Memory. Dare not I woo the maids of harmony, Calling the hero to the field of glory, And firing them with deeds of high emprise Who dares to sound the hollow tones of horror, And woo the silken zephyr in the bowers Hither, ye furious imps of Acheron, Nurslings of hell, and beings shunning light, And all the myriads of the burning concave ; Souls of the damned,-Hither, oh! come and join Th' infernal chorus. "Tis Despair I sing! He, whose solé tooth inflicts a deadlier pang, Than all your tortures join'd. Sing, sing Despair! Repeat the sound, and celebrate his power; Unite shouts, screams, and agonizing shrieks, Till the loud paan ring thro' hell's high vault, And the remotest spirits of the deep Leap from the lake, and join the dreadful song. VOL. I. TO THE WIND. AT MIDNIGHT. Not unfamiliar to mine ear, Mine ear has dwelt in silent awe, The howling sweep, the sudden rush; *: THE EVE OF DEATH. IRREGULAR. I. SILENCE of Death-portentous calm, I see, I see, on the dim mist borne, The Spirit of battles rear his crest! I see, I see, that, ere the morn, His spear will forsake its hated rest, And the widow'd wife of Larrendill will beat her naked breast. II. O'er the smooth bosom of the sullen deep, But nature sleeps a deathless sleep, For the hour of battle is nigh. Not a loose leaf waves on the dusky oak, I know, I know, what this silence means, Strike, oh ye bards! the melancholy harp, For this is the eve of death. III. Behold, how along the twilight air The shades of our fathers glide! There Morven fled, with the blood-drench'd hair, And Colma with grey 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; Let us pour to the hero the dirge of death--- 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; Concealed, the snake lies feeding on its prey, And syrens lure the wanderer to their wiles! Hateful it is to me, Its riotous railings and revengeful strife; I'm tir'd with all its screams and brutal shouts And welcome, oh! thou silent maid, And there amid unwholesome damps dost sleep, Sleepy Death I welcome thee! Death is the best, the only cure, Lay me in the Gothic tomb, |