Were assembled, a sad and a silent band, The death-damp from his brow to dry, Though arid the soil, though no verdure there be On the shore where he rests near "that classical sea," As placid he lies in his rocky grave, As in "coral cell," or in "pearly cave;" For in dust "the dead sleep as sweetly, as well” As if lulled in repose by the ocean-swell. His form, though it fade on a foreign coast, To the friends of his heart will never be lost: And when the dead wake at the last Trump's sound, With his glorified soul may his body be found. VI. THE PHANTOMS OF THE FOREST. A FRENCH TRADITION 27. CHORUS OF SPIRITS. KING! arrest thy courser's tread, Or be number'd with the dead! FIRST SPIRIT. I, proud King, am the Spirit of FEAR! While the light wanes in thine eye. On thy cheek-and o'er thy brow I, proud King, have chilled thy heart: SECOND SPIRIT. I, proud King, descend from high, To oppose my power is vain : I fire thy blood, I fire thy brain. Blood from friends' warm veins will flow; I see it kindle in thine eye, The fury of Insanity. Phrensy seize, proud King, thy heart! Away! and with my curse depart! THIRD SPIRIT. I, a Spirit from beneath, Bear the fleshless form of DEATH! Fear and Phrensy in my train, Unseen I walk the wood and plain : Moping Madness, idiot Folly, Wisdom and Philosophy, Run their course, and end with me. CHORUS OF SPIRITS. King! urge on thy courser's tread, Or be numbered with the dead! Fear behind, and Death before thee Murder at thy saddle-bow Madness burning on thy brow! Hence depart! away, away! King of Phrensy, live thy day, Till, o'erspent, thou yields't thy breath, An infant in the arms of Death! I WOULD not spend Life's little day As worldlings pass their lives away, Bound, as by an iron girth, To the grosser things of earth; Nor would I sink the aspiring soul, And joys with danger fraught: F |