Dare not I woo the maids of harmony, Calling the hero to the field of glory, And firing them with deeds of high emprise 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 sole 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. TO THE WIND. AT MIDNIGHT. Not unfamiliar to mine ear, With fitful force ye beat. 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 there amid unwholesome damps dost sleep, Sleepy Death I welcome thee! I may lie in mouldering state, Carve a stately monument; Then thereon my statue lay, And while the harmonious thunders roll, Chaunt 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! Yet mortal life is sad, Eternal storms molest its sullen sky; And sorrows ever rife Drain the sacred fountain dry, Away with mortal life! |