CANZONET.

1.

MAIDEN! wrap thy mantle round thee,
Cold the rain beats on thy breast:

Why should horror's voice astound thee?
Death can bid the wretched rest!

All under the tree

Thy bed may be,

And thou mayst slumber peacefully.

2.

Maiden! once gay pleasure knew thee;
Now thy cheeks are pale and deep:
Love has been a felon to thee;

Yet, poor maiden, do not weep;

There's rest for thee

All under the tree,

Where thou wilt sleep most peacefully.

COMMENCEMENT OF A POEM

ON DESPAIR.

SOME to Aonian lyres of silver sound With winning elegance attune their song, Form'd to sink lightly on the soothed sense, And charm the soul with softest harmony:

"Tis then that hope with sanguine eye is seen
Roving thro' 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 mcaning wind;

And, when the awful silence of the night
Strikes the chill death-dew to the murd'rer's heart,
He speaks in every conscious-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 thro' hell's high vault, And the remotest spirits of the deep

Leap from the lake, and join the dreadful song.

TO THE WIND.

AT MIDNIGHT.

NOT unfamiliar to mine ear,

-Blasts of the night! ye howl as now
My shudd'ring casement loud

With fitful force ye beat.

Mine ear has dwelt in silent awe,

The howling sweep, the sudden rush;
And when the passing gale

Pour'd deep the hollow dirge,

SILENCE of Death-portentous calm,

Those airy forms that yonder fly, Denote that your void foreruns a storm, That the hour of fate is nigh.

I see, I see, on the dim mist borne,

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 long 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.