"Tis then that Hope with sanguine eye is seen Her heart light dancing to the sounds of pleasure, Comes with her sister, Melancholy sad, Pensively musing on the scenes of youth, Such subjects merit poets us'd to raise The attic verse harmonious; but for me 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, At noon of night, where, on the coast of blood, Howls forth his sufferings to the moaning wind; And, when the awful silence of the night Strikes the chill death-dew to the murd'rer's heart, '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, Of lyre Æolian, or the martial bugle, Calling the hero to the field of glory, And firing him 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, He, whose sole tooth inflicts a deadlier pang Than all your tortures join'd. Sing, sing Despair! Leap from the lake, and join the dreadful song. SILENCE of Death-portentous calm, Those airy forms that yonder fly, Denote that your void foreruns a storm, 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, 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, Strike, oh, ye bards! the melancholy harp, 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; 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; Conceal'd, the snake lies feeding on its prey, And syrens lure the wanderer to their wiles! Its riotous railings and revengeful strife; I'm tir'd with all its screams and brutal shouts And there amid unwholesome damps dost sleep, In such forgetful slumbers deep, That all thy senses stupified, Are to marble petrified. Death is the best, the only cure, |