COMMENCEMENT OF A POEM ON DESPAIR SOME to Aonian lyres of silver sound Her heart light dancing to the sounds of pleasure, Pensively musing on the scenes of youth, Such subjects merit poets used to raise The Attic verse harmonious; but for me A deadlier 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 sufferings to the moaning wind; * Alluding to the two pleasing poems, the Pleasures of Hope and of Memory. Half utter'd, half suppress'd. 'Tis him I sing - Despair- terrific name, Of timorous terror-discord in the sound: And firing him with deeds of high emprise And woo the silken zephyr in the bowers Leap from the lake, and join the dreadful song. THE EVE OF DEATH. IRREGULAR. 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. 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, Behold, how along the twilight air The shades of our fathers glide! There Morven fled, with the blood-drenched hair, 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; Concealed the snake lies feeding on its prey, And sirens lure the wanderer to their wiles! Hateful it is to me, 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, Where never daylight's dazzling ray And there amid unwholesome damps dost sleep, Sleepy Death, I welcome thee! 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 the harmonious thunders roll, Chant a vesper to my soul: Thus how sweet my sleep will be, Shut out from thoughtful misery! |