MORTAL.

Mine eyelids are heavy; my soul seeks repose,
It longs in thy cells to embosom its woes,
It longs in thy cells to deposit its load,

Where no longer the scorpions of Perfidy goad;
Where the phantoms of Prejudice vanish away,
And Bigotry's bloodhounds lose scent of their
prey;

Yet tell me, dark Death, when thine empire is

o'er,

19

What awaits on Futurity's mist-covered shore?

DEATH.

Cease, cease, wayward Mortal! I dare not

unveil

The shadows that float o'er Eternity's vale; Naught waits for the good, but a spirit of Love, That will hail their bless'd advent to regions

above.

For Love, Mortal, gleams through the gloom of

my sway,

And the shades which surround me fly fast at

its ray.

Hast thou loved? Then depart from these regions of hate,

And in slumber with me blunt the arrows of

fate.

I offer a calm habitation to thee,

Say, victim of grief, wilt thou slumber with me?

MORTAL.

30

Oh! sweet is thy slumber! oh! sweet is the

ray

Which after thy night introduces the day; How concealed, how persuasive, self-interest's breath,

1

4

Though it floats to mine ear from the bosom of

Death.

I hoped that I quite was forgotten by all, Yet a lingering friend might be grieved at my fall.

And duty forbids, though I languish to die, When departure might heave virtue's breast with a sigh.

Oh, Death! oh, my friend! snatch this form to thy shrine,

And I fear, dear destroyer, I shall not repine. 40

TO DEATH.

DEATH! where is thy victory?
To triumph whilst I die,
To triumph whilst thine ebon wing
Enfolds my shuddering soul.
Oh, Death! where is thy sting?

Not when the tides of murder roll, When nations groan, that kings may bask in bliss.

Death! canst thou boast a victory such as this? When in his hour of pomp and power

His blow the mightiest murderer gave, 10 'Mid nature's cries the sacrifice

Of millions to glut the grave;

When sunk the tyrant desolation's slave; Or Freedom's life-blood streamed upon thy shrine;

Stern tyrant, couldst thou boast a victory such as mine?

To know in dissolution's void,

That mortals' baubles sunk decay,
That everything, but Love, destroyed

Must perish with its kindred clay.
Perish Ambition's crown,

Perish her sceptered sway;

20

From Death's pale front fades Pride's fastidious frown.

In Death's damp vault the lurid fires decay, That Envy lights at heaven-born Virtue's beam

That all the cares subside,

Which lurk beneath the tide

Of life's unquiet stream.

Yes! this is victory!

And on yon rock, whose dark form glooms the

sky,

To stretch these pale limbs, when the soul is fled;

30

To baffle the lean passions of their prey, To sleep within the palace of the dead! Oh! not the King, around whose dazzling throne

His countless courtiers mock the words they

say,

Triumphs amid the bud of glory blown,

As I in this cold bed, and faint expiring groan!

Tremble, ye proud, whose grandeur mocks the

woe,

Which props the column of unnatural state,
You the plainings faint and low,

From misery's tortured soul that flow, 40
Shall usher to your fate.

Tremble, ye conquerors, at whose fell command
The war-fiend riots o'er a peaceful land.
You desolation's gory throng
Shall bear from Victory along
To that mysterious strand.

POEMS FROM ST. IRVYNE, OR THE

ROSICRUCIAN.

NUMBER 1.

I.

"TWAS dead of the night, when I sat in my dwelling;

One glimmering lamp was expiring and low; Around, the dark tide of the tempest was

swelling,

Along the wild mountains night-ravens were

yelling,

They bodingly presaged destruction and woe.

II.

'Twas then that I started!-the wild storm was howling,

Naught was seen, save the lightning, which danced in the sky;

Above me, the crash of the thunder was rolling, And low, chilling murmurs the blast wafted by.

III.

My heart sank within me-unheeded the war Of the battling clouds, on the mountain-A tops, broke ;

Unheeded the thunder-peal crashed in mine

ear

This heart, hard as iron, is stranger to fear; But conscience in low, noiseless whispering

spoke.

IV.

'Twas then that, her form on the whirlwind upholding,

The ghost of the murdered Victoria strode;

In her right hand, a shadowy shroud she was holding,

She swiftly advanced to my lonesome abode.

V.

I wildly then called on the tempest to bear

me

*

NUMBER 2.

I.

GHOSTS of the dead! have I not heard your yelling

Rise on the night-rolling breath of the blast, When o'er the dark æther the tempest is swelling,

And on eddying whirlwind the thunder-peal passed?

II.

For oft have I stood on the dark height of

Jura,

Which frowns on the valley that opens beneath;

Oft have I braved the chill night-tempest's fury, Whilst around me, I thought, echoed murmurs of death.

III.

And now, whilst the winds of the mountain are howling,

O father! thy voice seems to strike on mine

ear;

In air whilst the tide of the night-storm is

rolling,

It breaks on the pause of the elements' jar.