"Tis then that Hope with sanguine eye is seen
Roving through Fancy's gay futurity;

Her heart light dancing to the sounds of pleasure,
Pleasure of days to come.-Memory too then

Comes with her sister, Melancholy sad,

Pensively musing on the scenes of youth,
Scenes never to return. *

Such subjects merit poets us'd to raise

The attic verse harmonious; but for me

A dreadlier theme demands my backward hand,
And bids me strike the strings of dissonance
With frantic energy.

'Tis wan Despair I sing; if sing I can,

Of him before whose blast the voice of song,
And mirth, and hope, and happiness, all fly,
Nor ever dare return. His notes are heard

At noon of night, where, on the coast of blood,
The lacerated son of Angola

Howls forth his sufferings to the moaning wind;

And, when the awful silence of the night

Strikes the chill death-dew to the murd'rer's heart,
He speaks in every conscience-prompted word
Half utter'd, half suppress'd-

'Tis him I sing-Despair-terrific name,
Striking unsteadily the tremulous chord

Of timorous terror-discord in the sound:

For to a theme revolting as is this,

* Alluding to the two pleasing poems, the Pleasures of Hope and of Memory.

Dare not I woo the maids of harmony,
Who love to sit and catch the soothing sound

Of lyre Æolian, or the martial bugle,

Calling the hero to the field of glory,

And firing him with deeds of high emprise,
And warlike triumph: but from scenes like mine
Shrink they affrighted, and detest the bard

Who dares to sound the hollow tones of horror.
Hence then, soft maids,

And woo the silken zephyr in the bowers
By Heliconia's sleep-inviting stream :
For aid like yours I seek not; 'tis for powers
Of darker hue to inspire a verse like mine!
'Tis work for wizards, sorcerers, and fiends!

Hither, ye furious imps of Acheron,
Nurslings of hell, and beings shunning light,
And all the myriads of the burning concave;
Souls of the damned; - Hither, oh! come and join
Th' infernal chorus. 'Tis Despair I sing!

He, whose sole tooth inflicts a deadlier pang

Than all your tortures join'd. Sing, sing Despair!
Repeat the sound, and celebrate his power;
Unite shouts, screams, and agonizing shrieks,
Till the loud paan ring through hell's high vault,
And the remotest spirits of the deep

Leap from the lake, and join the dreadful song.

SILENCE of Death-portentous calm,

Those airy forms that yonder fly,

Denote that your void foreruns a storm,

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.

II.

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,
But a creeping stillness reigns around;
Except when the raven, with ominous croak,
On the ear does unwelcomely sound.
I know, I know, what this silence means,
I know what the raven saith-

Strike, oh, ye bards! the melancholy harp,
For this is the eve of death.

III.

Behold, how along the twilight air

The shades of our fathers glide!

There Morven fled, with the blood-drench'd hair,

And Colma with grey 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-
For to-morrow he hies to the grave.

THANATOS.

OH! who would cherish life,

And cling unto this heavy clog of clay,

Love this rude world of strife,

Where glooms and tempests cloud the fairest day;
And where, 'neath outward smiles

Conceal'd, the snake lies feeding on its prey,
Where pit-falls lie in ev'ry flowery way,

And syrens lure the wanderer to their wiles!
Hateful it is to me,

Its riotous railings and revengeful strife;

I'm tir'd 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 day-light's dazzling ray
Comes to disturb thy dismal sway;

And there amid unwholesome damps dost sleep,

In such forgetful slumbers deep,

That all thy senses stupified,

Are to marble petrified.
Sleepy Death, I welcome thee!
Sweet are thy calms to misery.
Poppies I will ask no more,
Nor the fatal hellebore;

Death is the best, the only cure,
His are slumbers ever sure.
Lay me in the Gothic tomb,
In whose solemn fretted gloom