And thou proud monarch frowning on thy throne,
What is the space between thy pow'r and me,
'Tis but to sit above the crowd alone
And lord it o'er a few poor worms like thee.
Ah! when I look on man and see how low,
How vile has sunk the basely grovelling crowd,
I still can scarcely think this child of woe,
Can have sufficient meanness to be proud-
Depart, renown, oh hie thee far away,
And fortune, tho' in all thy splendour drest,
Oh! from this world you've torn my only stay,
And left not e'en one motive in my breast.
This world has now so dull and gloomy grown
So sickening every sight where'er I range-
Mid all life's bustle, I am still so lone
I'd leave it, were it only for a change.
What balm shall heal my wounds, or soothe my woes,
How shall I sink to my untimely grave,
Shall this sweet opiate lull me to repose,
Or shall I plunge beneath the roaring wave.
Come sweetest draught, I woo thee to my lips
With all the fondness of a lover's breast,
No thirsty weary pilgrim fondlier sips
The cooling fount or lays him down to rest.
Come do thy work, and free my struggling soul,
Swift as the lightning-from life's heavy chain,
I care not if I reach heav'n's shining goal,
Or plunge beneath the waves of endless pain.
You gave me life-take back the gift you gave
Nor think I'd thank you for such trash as this,
Sweeter to me annihilation's grave,
Oh! sweeter than the highest heav'n of bliss.
Roll on the winds your most terrific storm,
And shade the skies with more than Egypt's gloom;
Then with your 'vengeful lightnings scathe my form,
And hurl me to my never ending doom.
EDITED BY A FRATERNITY OF GENTLEMEN.
NEW-HAVEN, (CONN.) PUBLISHED BY A. H. MALTBY & CO.
THE SUICIDE.-Continued.
I'VE plung'd in Guilt, till I can plunge no more
I've been to Man and God the fellest foe,
On me-on me each cup of fury pour,
And whelm me in the deepest gulf of woe."
But e'er the sun had dip'd his orb of light
Beneath the wave that swell'd along the main,
A momentary brilliance met the sight,
And shone reflected o'er the wat❜ry plain.
The trembling lustre glanc'd upon his eye,
There was a something, neither smile nor tear,
A sound, nor comforts voice, nor sorrow's sigh,
Fell scarcely heard upon the listener's ear.
"Can there no ray like this of Mercy shine,
To dissipate my soul's terrific gloom;
Is there no beam from heav'n, no light divine,
Can gild the path that leads me to my tomb.
Must all within be desolate and sad,
Must all seem frowning to the mental sight,
When the last sun-beam makes all nature glad,
And ushers in with smiles the shades of night.
May I not hope although dark clouds of woe,
Hang o'er my soul and sink it to the grave;
May I not hope for happiness below
That heav'n will smile, and mercy deign to save.
The light is gone and all is dark again,
So flies the light that shone upon my soul,
Night's horrors thicken o'er the heaving main,
So, round my heart, Despair, Distraction roll.
What! shall I catch at hope's illusive gleams,
That glance like meteors through my phrenzied brain,
What! shall I trust to fancy's wildering dreams,
No! death and ruin welcome once again.
No! I can pierce the grave's tremendous gloom,
And thro' its dunnest shades unfaltering pry,
Can read with look unmov'd my direst doom,
And view the world of woe with heedless eye-
Oh! you may tell me of the quenchless flame,
And gnawing worm that never-never dies,
Or read each furious devil name by name,
The hottest hell within my bosom lies.
Is this your kindness-you who made my soul,
And form'd it to be sensible of woe,
Then bade a world of anguish o'er it roll,
And through my veins despair's dark currents flow.
Why was I made for misery alone,
Why were my joys but preludes to my pain,
Why was my voice but form'd to breathe the groan,
Or why my tongue but fashion'd to complain,
You bade a thousand pleasures, round me smile,
But mingled poison in their balmy breath,
Bade angel forms exert their every wile,
To lure me sweetly on to sin and death,
Is this your kindness-thus to charm my eyes,
By what would certainly my soul undo,
Oh! is it not sufficient to chastise,
Must you allure me, and then punish too.
Oh! happy prospect far before my sight
Annihilation rises dark and drear,
Or to my vision glares hell's murky light
And sighs and groans and gnashings fill my ear..
What clouds around the Grave's dark regions roll,
I'd give the wealth of worlds to pierce their gloom
And read imprinted on the eternal scroll:
The awful words of flame that mark my doom.
The thoughts of an hereafter wake my fears,
And fill my soul with agonizing throes,
Methinks some accent whispers in my ears
And tells me Nothing will my pangs compose.
Nothing!—there's something awful in that sound,
Oh! shall my all be crumbled into dust-
Shall mind-shall body rot beneath the ground,
Nor soul immortal from my casement burst.
Nothing!-away thou phantom from my brain,
Away thou deadlier fiend than ever rose
To rack the doubting soul with hellish pain,
Or fill it with a maniac fancy's woes.
Nothing!-unreal shade of all that's ill,
Cease-cease thy clamours nor disturb me more—
Hush! let that demon voice of thine be still,
Oh hie thee to thy dark tartarean shore.
What if I pry beyond the yawning grave,
Is there a light can point my wilder'd way,
Is there an arm of mercy, stretcht to save,
Oh help, that arm! and guide me genial ray.
I look, but all is darker than the gloom,
That hung a sooty mist, o'er Egypt's land,
Flisten, all is stiller than the tomb;
There is no ray-no mercy's outstretched hand:
Come then each busy devil to my breast,
Come every fiend of hell, and nestle there-
Rack me-Religion cannot give me rest;
If mercy will not whisper-yell, despair!
My ear is open to thy piercing cry-
Pour it to every suffering I'm resign'd,
But hark!-methought I heard an angel fly
With downy pinions on the passing wind.
No! 'twas an idle fancy-mock no more
Thou cheating spirit, thou art false though fair,
No! 'twas the wave of ruin's sullen roar,
No! 'twas the hollow voice of dark despair.
Come grisly death! and whet thy bloody dart,
Come waft upon the breeze my dying knell,
Oh! misery and woe have fill'd my heart
Oh! hell to me is nothing-nothing 's hell."
He said and lifted high the poison'd draught,
"This gives" he cried "my body to the tomb-
To nothing-dreary nothing it shall waft,
My soul, or yield it to its endless doom.
A doom that strikes my shuddering soul with dread,
And almost drives my purpose from my breast,
Speak not those words-for every hope is fled
In death-in darkness is my only rest.
"Come to my lips" he spake with features calm,
"Come to my lips-thou cordial of my woes,
Pour in my wounded heart thy healing balm
And in eternal sleep my eyelids close.
Come lovely draught! oh, lovelier than the spring,
And sweeter than the morning's dewy breath,
Come to my soul, oblivion's comforts bring,"
He said, and madly drank the cup of death.
The love of glory in a woman's mind, is what M. De Stael said of genius, in the midst of society; "it is a pain, an internal fever," which has the promise of little reward. In vain na ture has blessed her with strong mental powers; she may devote herself assiduously to study, and unwearied application, but what will be her recompense, but the censures of society? she may sacrifice her ease, her health, her beauty, to a phantom, which forever eludes her grasp, unless she braves the storms of prejudice, which in this country, hang over female talents.
It is not so with man ; the hope of distinction fills his bosom ; he beholds the prize, and rushes on to victory, and glory!
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