Hark! to those notes, how sweet, how thrilling

sweet

They echo to the sound of angels' feet.

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*

Oh haste to the bower where roses are spread,
For there is prepared thy nuptial bed.
Oh haste-hark! hark!-they're gone.

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*

*

CHORUS OF SPIRITS.

*

STAY, ye days of contentment and joy,
Whilst love every care is erasing;
Stay, ye pleasures that never can cloy,
And ye spirits that can never cease pleasing.

And if any soft passion be near,

Which mortals, frail mortals, can know,

Let love shed on the bosom a tear,
And dissolve the chill ice-drop of woe.

SYMPHONY.

FRANCIS.

"SOFT, my dearest angel, stay, "Oh! you suck my soul away;

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Suck on, suck on, I glow, I glow! "Tides of maddening passion roll,

"And streams of rapture drown my soul.

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'Now give me one more billing kiss,

'Let your lips now repeat the bliss, "Endless kisses steal my breath,

"No life can equal such a death."

CHARLOTTE.

Oh! yes, I will kiss thine eyes so fair, "And I will clasp thy form;

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'Serene is the breath of the balmy air,

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But I think, love, thou feelest me warm. “And I will recline on thy marble neck

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"Till I mingle into thee.

'And I will kiss the rose on thy cheek,
"And thou shalt give kisses to me.
For here is no morn to flout our delight,
"Oh! dost thou not joy at this?

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"And here we may lie an endless night,
"A long, long night of bliss."

Spirits! when raptures move,
Say what it is to love,

When passion's tear stands on the cheek,
When bursts the unconscious sigh;
And the tremulous lips dare not speak
What is told by the soul-felt eye.
But what is sweeter to revenge's ear

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Than the fell tyrant's last expiring yell? 110 Yes! than love's sweetest blisses 'tis more dear To drink the floatings of a despot's knell. I wake-'tis done-'tis o'er.

*

*

*

DESPAIR.

AND canst thou mock mine agony, thus calm In cloudless radiance, Queen of silver night? Can you, ye flow'rets, spread your perfumed balm

'Mid pearly gems of dew that shine so bright? And you wild winds, thus can you sleep so still Whilst throbs the tempest of my breast so

Can the fierce night-fiends rest on yonder hill, And, in the eternal mansions of the sky, Can the directors of the storm in powerless silence lie?

Hark! I hear music on the zephyr's wing,

Louder it floats along the unruffled sky; Some fairy sure has touched the viewless string

Now faint in distant air the murmurs die, Awhile it stills the tide of agony.

Now-now it loftier swells-again stern woe Arises with the awakening melody.

Again fierce torments, such as dæmons know, In bitterer, feller tide, on this torn bosom flow.

Arise ye sightless spirits of the storm,

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Ye unseen minstrels of the aërial song, Pour the fierce tide around this lonely form, And roll the tempest's wildest swell along. Dart the red lightning, wing the forkèd flash, Pour from thy cloud-form'd hills the thunder's

roar;

Arouse the whirlwind-and let ocean dash

In fiercest tumult on the rocking shore, Destroy this life or let earth's fabric be no more.

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Yes! every tie that links me here is dead;
Mysterious fate, thy mandate I obey;
Since hope and peace and joy for aye are fled,
I come, terrific power, I come away:
Then o'er this ruined soul let spirits of hell,
In triumph, laughing wildly, mock its pain;
And though with direst pangs mine heart-
strings swell,

I'll echo back their deadly yells again, Cursing the power that ne'er made aught in

FRAGMENT.

YES! all is past-swift time has fled away, Yet its swell pauses on my sickening mind; How long will horror nerve this frame of clay? I'm dead, and lingers yet my soul behind. Oh! powerful fate, revoke thy deadly spell, And yet that may not ever, ever be,

Heaven will not smile upon the work of hell;

Ah! no, for heaven cannot smile on me; Fate, envious fate, has sealed my wayward

destiny.

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I sought the cold brink of the midnight surge, I sighed beneath its wave to hide my woes, The rising tempest sung a funeral dirge,

And on the blast a frightful yell arose. Wild flew the meteors o'er the maddened main, Wilder did grief athwart my bosom glare; Stilled was the unearthly howling, and a strain, Swelled 'mid the tumult of the battling air,'Twas like a spirit's song, but yet more soft and fair.

I met a maniac; like he was to me;

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I said- "Poor victim wherefore dost thou

roam ?

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And canst thou not contend with agony, "That thus at midnight thou dost quit thine home?"

Ah there she sleeps: cold is her bloodless form,

"And I will go to slumber in her grave; And then our ghosts, whilst raves the maddened storm,

"Will sweep at midnight o'er the wildered

wave;

"Wilt thou our lowly beds with tears of pity lave?

"Ah! no, I cannot shed the pitying tear;

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This breast is cold, this heart can feel no

more;

"But I can rest me on thy chilling bier,

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Can shriek in horror to the tempest's roar.'

THE SPECTRAL HORSEMAN.

WHAT was the shriek that struck fancy's ear
As it sate on the ruins of time that is past?
Hark! it floats on the fitful blast of the wind,
And breathes to the pale moon a funeral sigh.
It is the Benshie's moan on the storm,
Or a shivering fiend that, thirsting for sin,
Seeks murder and guilt when virtue sleeps,
Winged with the power of some ruthless king,
And sweeps o'er the breast of the prostrate
plain.

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It was not a fiend from the regions of hell That poured its low moan on the stillness of night:

It was not a ghost of the guilty dead,
Nor a yelling vampire reeking with gore;
But aye at the close of seven years' end,
That voice is mixed with the swell of the storm;
And aye at the close of seven years' end,
A shapeless shadow that sleeps on the hill
Awakens and floats on the mist of the heath.
It is not the shade of a murdered man,