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Where never day-light's dazzling ray Comes to disturb thy dismal sway; 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 th' harmonious thunders roll
soul : Thus how sweet my sleep will be, Shut out from thoughtful misery!
Chant a vesper
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!
tear, The daughter lov'd, 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,
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 ecstacy,
And bids the jarring world's harsh clangour cease. 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. 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. 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.
Of softest flutes or reeds harmonic join'd,
And pleased Attention claims the passive mind.
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, Romantic sounds! such is the bliss ye give,
That heaven's bright scenes seem bursting on the With joy I'd yield each sensual wish, to live (soul, For ever 'neath
undefiled control. 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.
ODE, TO THE HARVEST MOON.
-Cum ruit imbriferum ver :
Cuncta tibi Cererem pubes agrestis adoret. Virgil.
Where Innocence and Peace reside; 'Tis thou that gladd'st with joy the rustic throng, Promptest the tripping dance, th' exhilarating song.
Moon of Harvest, I do love
Where no thin vapour intercepts thy ray,
Pleasing 'tis, oh, modest Moon!
And thinking soon,
Oh, modest Moon!
To see the load,
Drive the clouds along the sky,
may all nature smile with aspect boon, When in the Heavens thou show'st thy face, oh,
many a female
’Neath yon lowly roof he lies,