And that another hour, and they must fall Like those who went before, and sleep as still A cold and cheerless sleep. Yet why should thoughts like these intrude to scare A transient visitor? Mortals! be gladsome while ye have the power, That warns ye to your graves. I to the woodland solitude will bend My lonesome way-where Mirth's obstreperous shout Shall not intrude to break The meditative hour. There will I ponder on the state of man, To sad reflection's shrine; And I will cast my fond eye far beyond CANZONET. MAIDEN! wrap thy mantle round thee, All under the tree Thy bed may be, And thou mayst slumber peacefully. Maiden! once gay Pleasure knew thee; Yet, poor maiden, do not weep: There's rest for thee All under the tree, Where thou wilt sleep most peacefully. COMMENCEMENT OF A POEM ON DESPAIR. SOME to Aonian lyres of silver sound Her heart light dancing to the sounds of pleasure, Comes with her sister, Melancholy sad, Such subjects merit poets used 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, * Alluding to the two pleasing poems, the Pleasures of Hope and of Memory... Nor ever dare return. His notes are heard At noon of night, where on the coast of blood, Howls forth his sufferings to the moaning wind; Strikes the chill death-dew to the murderer's heart, "Tis him I sing-Despair-terrific name, Of timorous terror-discord in the sound: And firing him with deeds of high emprise, Hence, then, soft maids, And woo the silken zephyr in the bowers Unite shouts, screams, and agonizing shrieks, Leap from the lake, and join the dreadful song. TO THE WIND. AT MIDNIGHT. Blasts of the night! ye howl, as now With fitful force ye beat. Mine ear has dwelt in silent awe, Pour'd deep the hollow dirge— THE EVE OF DEATH. IRREGULAR. SILENCE of death-portentous calm, Those airy forms that yonder fly, Denote that your void fore-runs a storm, That the hour of fate is nigh. 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, [breast. And the widow'd wife of Larrendill will beat her naked O'er the smooth bosom of the sullen deep, No softly ruffling zephyrs fly; 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; I know what the raven saith Strike, oh, ye bards! the melancholy harp, Behold, how along the twilight air The shades of our fathers glide! 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; Let us pour to the hero the dirge of death- THANATOS. OH! who would cherish life, And cling unto this heavy clog of clay, Where glooms and tempests cloud the fairest day; Conceal'd, the snake lies feeding on its prey; Where pit-falls lie in every flowery way, And sirens lure the wanderer to their wiles! 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, |