LOVE AND MADNESS.

AN ELEGY.

Written in 1795.

HARK! from the battlements of yonder tower The solemn bell has toll'd the midnight hour! Rous'd from drear visions of distemper'd sleep, Poor Bk wakes-in solitude to weep!

"Cease, Mem'ry, cease (the friendless mourner cried) To probe the bosom too severely tried!

Oh! ever cease, my pensive thoughts, to, stray
Through the bright fields of Fortune's better day,
When youthful Hope, the music of the mind,
Tun'd all its charms, and En was kind!

"Yet, can I cease, while glows this trembling frame, In sighs to speak thy melancholy name? I hear thy spirit wail in every storm! In midnight shades I view thy passing form! Pale as in that sad hour when doom'd to feel, Deep in thy perjur'd heart, the bloody steel!

"Demons of Vengeance! ye, at whose command I grasp'd the sword with more than woman's hand! Say ye, did Pity's trembling voice control, Or Horror damp the purpose of my soul? No! my wild heart sat smiling o'er the plan, Till Hate fulfill'd what baffled Love began!

"Yes; let the clay-cold breast, that never knew One tender pang to generous Nature true, Half-mingling pity with the gall of sco rn, Condemn this heart, that bled in love forlor *Warwick Castle.

"And ye, proud fair, whose soul no gladness warms, Save Rapture's homage to your conscious charms, Delighted idols of a gaudy train!

Ill can your blunter feelings guess the pain,
When the fond faithful heart, inspir'd to prove
Friendship refin'd, the calm delight of love,
Feels all its tender strings with anguish torn,
And bleeds at perjur'd Pride's inhuman scorn!

"Say, then, did pitying Heav'n condemn the deed, When Vengeance bade thee, faithless lover, bleed? Long had I watch'd thy dark foreboding brow, What time thy bosom scorn'd its dearest vow! Sad, though I wept the friend, the lover chang'd, Still thy cold look was scornful and estrang'd; Till from thy pity, love, and shelter, thrown, I wander'd, hopeless, friendless, and alone!

"Oh! righteous Heav'n! 'twas then my tortur'd soul First gave to wrath unlimited control!

Adieu the silent look-the streaming eye

The murmur'd plaint-the deep heart-heaving sigh !!!!!
Long slumb'ring Vengeance wakes to better deeds;
He shrieks, he falls, the perjur'd lover bleeds!

Now the last laugh of agony is o'er,

And pale in blood he sleeps, to wake no more!

"" done the flame of hate no longer burns;
Nature relents, but, ah! too late returns!
Why does my soul this gush of fondness feel?
Trembling and faint, I drop the guilty steel
Cold on my heart the hand of terror lies,
And shades of horror close my languid eyes!

"Oh! 'twas a deed of murder's deepest grain! Could Bk's soul so true to wrath remain ? A friend long true, a once fond lover fell!Where Love was foster'd, could not Pity dwell?

"Unhappy youth! while yon pale crescent glows, To Watch on silent Nature's deep repose; Thy sleepless spirit, breathing from the tomb, Foretels my fate, and summons me to come! Once more I see thy sheeted spectre stand, Roll the dim eye, and wave the paly hand!

"Soon may this fluttering spark of vital flame Forsake its languid melancholy frame! Soon may these eyes their trembling lustre close! Welcome the dreamless night of long repose! Soon may this wo-worn spirit seek the bourne, Where, lull'd to slumber, Grief forgets to mourn !***

HOHENLINDEN.

ON Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay th' untrodden snow,
And dark and wintry was the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

But Linden saw another sight,
When the drum beat, at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light
The darkness of her scenery-

By torch and trumpet fast array'd,
Each horseman drew his battle blade,
And furious every charger neigh'd,
-To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills with thunder riv'n, Then rush'd the steed to battle driv'n, And louder than the bolts of Heaven, Far flash'd the red artillery.

But redder yet that light shall glow,
On Linden's hills of stained snow,
And bloodier yet the torrent flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

"Tis morn-but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun, Shout in their sulph'rous canopy.

The combat deepens. On, ye brave,
Who rush to glory, or the grave!
Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave,

And charge with all thy chivalry?

Few, few shall part where many meet!
The snow shall be their winding-sheet
And every turf beneath their feet
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.