We rest-a dream has power to poison sleep; We rise-one wandering thought pollutes the day; We feel, conceive or reason, laugh or weep; It is the same!-for, be it joy or sorrow, ON DEATH. There is no work, nor device, nor knowledge, nor wisdom, in the grave, whither thou goest.-ECCLESIASTES. THE pale, the cold, and the moony smile Which the meteor beam of a starless night Sheds on a lonely and sea-girt isle, Ere the dawning of morn's undoubted light, Is the flame of life so fickle and wan That flits round our steps till their strength is gone. O man! hold thee on in courage of soul Through the stormy shades of thy worldly way, And the billows of cloud that around thee roll Shall sleep in the light of a wondrous day, Where hell and heaven shall leave thee free To the universe of destiny. This world is the nurse of all we knew, This world is the mother of all we feel, And the coming of death is a fearful blow To a brain unencompassed with nerves of steel; When all that we know, or feel, or see, Shall pass like an unreal mystery. The secret things of the grave are there, Who telleth a tale of unspeaking death? Who lifteth the veil of what is to come? Who painteth the shadows that are beneath The wide-winding caves of the peopled tomb? Or uniteth the hopes of what shall be With the fears and the love for that which we see? TO **** ΔΑΚΡΥΣΙ ΔΙΟΙΣΩ ΠΟΤΜΟΝ ΑΠΟΤΜΟΝ. O, THERE are spirits in the air, And genii of the evening breeze, And gentle ghosts, with eyes as fair As star-beams among twilight trees:- Such lovely ministers to meet Oft hast thou turned from men thy lonely feet. With mountain winds, and babbling springs, And mountain seas, that are the voice Of these inexplicable things, Thou didst hold commune, and rejoice And thou hast sought in starry eyes Beams that were never meant for thine, Another's wealth;-Tame sacrifice To a fond faith! still dost thou pine? Still dost thou hope that greeting hands, Voice, looks, or lips, may answer thy demands? Ah! wherefore didst thou build thine hope Of love, or moving thoughts to thee? That natural scenes or human smiles Could steal the power to wind thee in their wiles. Yes, all the faithless smiles are fled Whose falsehood left thee broken-hearted; The glory of the moon is dead; Night's ghost and dreams have now departed; Thine own soul still is true to thee, But changed to a foul fiend through misery. This fiend, whose ghastly presence ever Beside thee like thy shadow hangs, Be as thou art. Thy settled fate, TO WORDSWORTH. POET of Nature, thou hast wept to know glow, Have fled like sweet dreams, leaving thee to mourn. These common woes I feel. One loss is mine, STANZAS.-APRIL, 1814. AWAY! the moor is dark beneath the moon, Rapid clouds have drunk the last pale beam of even: Away! the gathering winds will call the darkness soon, And profoundest midnight shroud the serene lights of heaven. Pause not the time is past! every voice cries, Away! Tempt not with one last glance thy friend's ungentle mood: Thy lover's eye, so glazed and cold, dares not entreat thy stay: Duty and dereliction guide thee back to solitude. Away, away! to thy sad and silent home; Pour bitter tears on its desolated hearth; Watch the dim shades as like ghosts they go and come, And complicate strange webs of melancholy mirth. The leaves of wasted autumn woods shall float around thine head, The blooms of dewy spring shall gleam beneath thy feet But thy soul or this world must fade in the frost that binds the dead, |