Who has rushed uncalled to the throne of his God, 20 And howls in the pause of the eddying storm. ? 'Tis not heard by the ear, but is felt in the soul. 'Tis more frightful far than the death-dæmon's scream, Or the laughter of fiends when they howl o'er the corpse Of a man who has sold his soul to hell. It tells the approach of a mystic form, When the clear moonlight sleeps on the wave- 30 More pale his cheek than the snows of Nithona And the whirlwinds howl in the caves of Inisfallen, Still secure 'mid the wildest war of the sky, 40 The meteors of midnight recoil from his figure, And his voice, though faint as the sighs of the The startled passenger shudders to hear, More distinct than the thunder's wildest roar. Then does the dragon who, chained in the caverns To eternity, curses the champion of Erin, Moan and yell loud at the lone hour of midnight, And twine his vast wreathes round the forms of the dæmons; 50 Then in agony roll his death-swimming eyeballs, Though wildered by death, yet never to die! Then he shakes from his skeleton folds the nightmares, Who, shrieking in agony, seek the couch Of some fevered wretch who courts sleep in vain ; Then the tombless ghosts of the guilty dead 59 MELODY TO A SCENE OF FORMER TIMES. ART thou indeed for ever gone, Ah! no, the agonies that swell Might wake my This panting breast, this frenzied brain 10 I do not blame thee love; ah no! Two years of speechless bliss are gone,— Again you say, "confide in me, 20 30 40 Athwart my enanguished senses flew [End of Posthumous Fragments of STANZA: 66 TREMBLE, KINGS!" ADAPTED FROM THE MARSEILLAISE. TREMBLE Kings despised of man! The brilliant pathway to pursue Which leads to DEATH or VICTORY... ON AN ICICLE THAT CLUNG TO THE GRASS OF A GRAVE. I. ОH! take the pure gem to where southerly breezes Waft repose to some bosom as faithful as fair, In which the warm current of love never freezes, As it rises unmingled with selfishness there, Which, untainted by pride, unpolluted by care, Might dissolve the dim ice-drop, might bid it Too pure for these regions, to gleam in the skies. II. Or where the stern warrior, his country defending, Dares fearless the dark-rolling battle to pour, Or o'er the fell corpse of a dread tyrant bending, Where patriotism red with his guilt-reeking gore Plants liberty's flag on the slave-peopled shore, With victory's cry, with the shout of the free, Let it fly, taintless spirit, to mingle with thee. III. For I found the pure gem, when the day-beam returning, Ineffectual gleams on the snow-covered plain, When to others the wished-for arrival of morning Brings relief to long visions of soul-racking pain; But regret is an insult-to grieve is in vain : And why should we grieve that a spirit so fair Seeks Heaven to mix with its own kindred there? IV. But still 'twas some spirit of kindness descend ing To share in the load of mortality's woe, Who, over thy lowly-built sepulchre bending, Bade sympathy's tenderest tear-drop to flow. |