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And, tinged with such variety of shade,
To the charm’d soul sublimest thoughts convey'd.
In these what forms romantic did we trace, 200
While Fancy led us o'er the realms of space!
Now we espied the Thunderer in his car,
Leading the embattled seraphim to war,
Then stately towers descried, sublimely high,
In Gothic grandeur frowning on the sky,
Or saw, wide stretching o'er the azure height,
A ridge of glaciers in mural white,
Hugely terrific.—But those times are o'er,
And the fond scene can charm mine eyes no more;
For thou art gone, and I am left below,
210 Alone to struggle through this world of woe.
The scene is o'er-still seasons onward roll,
And each revolve conducts me toward the goal ;
Yet all is blank, without one soft relief,
One endless continuity of grief;
215 And the tired soul, now led to thoughts sublime, Looks but for rest beyond the bounds of time.
Toil toil on, ye busy crowds, that pant For hoards of wealth which ye will never want: And, lost to all but gain, with ease resign 220 The calms of peace and happiness divine ! Far other cares be mine-Men little crave In this short journey to the silent grave; And the poor peasant, bless'd with peace and health, I envy more than Cresus with his wealth.
Yet grieve not I, that Fate did not decree
Paternal acres to await on me;
She gave me more, she placed within my
A heart with little pleased-with little bless'd :
I look around me, where, on every side
Extensive manors spread in wealthy pride ;
And could my sight be borne to either zone,
I should not find one foot of land my own.
But whither do Iwander? shall the muse,
For golden baits, her simple theme refuse? 235
Oh, no! but while the weary spirit greets
The fading scenes of childhood's far-gone sweets,
It catches all the infant's wandering tongue,
And prattles on in desultory song.
That song must close--the gloomy mists of night 240
Obscure the pale stars' visionary light,
And ebon darkness, clad in vapoury wet,
Steals on the welkin in primeval jet.
The song must close. Once more my adverse lot Leads me reluctant from this cherish'd spot: 245 Again compels to plunge in busy life, And brave the hateful turbulence of strife.
Scenes of my youth--ere my unwilling feet
Are turn'd for ever from this loved retreat,
Ere on these fields, with plenty cover'd o'er, 250
My eyes are closed to ope on them no more,
Let me ejaculate, to feeling due,
One long, one last affectionate adieu.
Grant that, if ever Providence should please
To give me an old age
Grant that, in these sequester'd shades, my days
May wear away in gradual decays;
And oh! ye spirits, who unbodied play
Unseen upon the pinions of the day,
Kind genii of my native fields benign,
260 Who were
FRAGMENT OF AN ECCENTRIC DRAMA, WRITTEN AT
A VERY EARLY AGE.
THE DANCE OF THE CONSUMPTIVES.
Merry, merry, go the bells,
Over the heath, over the moor, and over the dale,
• Swinging slow with sullen roar,'
Dance, dance away, the jocund roundelay!
Ding-dong, ding-dong, calls us away.
Round the oak, and round the elm,
Merrily foot it o'er the ground ! The sentry ghost it stands aloof, So merrily, merrily foot it round,
Merry merry, go the bells
Swelling in the nightly gale,
The sentry ghost,
It keeps its post,
And soon, and soon our sports must fail :
But let us trip the nightly ground,
While the merry, merry bells ring round.
Hark! hark! the death-watch ticks!
See, see, the winding-sheet!
Our dance is done,
Our race is run,
nd we must lie at the alder's feet!
Merry, merry go the bells,
Swinging o'er the weltering wave!
And we must seek
Our death-beds bleak,
Where the green sod grows upon the grave.
They vanish--The Goddess of Consumption descends, ha
bited in a sky-blue robe, attended by mournful music.
Come, Melancholy, sister mine.
Cold the dews, and chill the night!
Come from thy dreary shrine !
The wan moon climbs the heavenly height,
And underneath the sickly ray
Troops of squalid spectres play,
And the dying mortals' groan
Startles the night on her dusky throne.
Come, come, sister mine!
Gliding on the pale moon-shine;
We'll ride at ease
On the tainted breeze,
And oh! our sport will be divine.
The Goddess of Melancholy advances out of a deep glen in the
rear, habited in black, and covered with a thick veil. - She speaks.
Sister, from my dark abode,
Where nests the raven, sits the toad,
Hither I come, at thy command :
Sister, sister, join thy hand!
Sister, sister, join thy hand!
I will smooth the
Thou shalt furnish food for me.
Come, let us speed our way
Where the troops of spectres play
To charnel-houses, church-yards drear,
Where Death sits with a horrible leer,
A lasting grin on a throne of bones,
And skim along the blue tomb-stones.
Come, let us speed away,
Lay our snares, and spread our tether!
I will smooth the way for thee,
Thou shalt furnish food for me:
And the grass shall wave
many a grave, Where youth and beauty sleep together.
Come, let us speed our way!
Join our hands and spread our tether!
I will furnish food for thee,
Thou shalt smooth the
shall O'er many a grave, Where youth and beauty sleep together.
Hist, sister, hist! who comes here?
Oh! I know her by that tear,
By that blue eye's languid glare,
By her skin, and by her hair :
She is mine,
And she is thine,
Now the deadliest draught prepare.
In the dismal night air dress'd
I will creep into her breast;
Flush her cheek, and bleach her skin,
And feed on the vital fire within.
Lover, do not trust her eyes, -
When they sparkle most she dies !
Mother, do not trust her breath,-
Comfort she will breathe in death!