MORTAL. Mine eyelids are heavy; my soul seeks repose, 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, 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? 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 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; To baffle the lean passions of their prey, To sleep within the palace of the dead! 30 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, From misery's tortured soul that flow, 40 Tremble, ye conquerors, at whose fell command 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 preɛaged 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 mountaintops, 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 be neath; 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. |