THE last, the fatal hour is come,
That bears my love from me:
I hear the dead-note of the drum,
I mark the gallows-tree!
The bell has toll'd; it shakes my heart;
The trumpet speaks thy name;
And must my Gilderoy depart
To bear a death of shame?
No bosom trembles for thy doom;
No mourner wipes a tear:
The gallows' foot is all thy tomb,
The sledge is all thy bier!
Oh, Gilderoy, bethought we then,
So soon, so sad, to part,
When first in Roslin's lovely glen
You triumph'd o'er my heart!
Your locks they glittered to the sheen,
Your hunter garb was trim;
And graceful was the ribbon green
That bound your manly limb!
Ah! little thought I to deplore
Those limbs in fetters bound;
Or hear upon the scaffold-floor
The midnight hammer sound.
Ye cruel, cruel, that combined
The guiltless to pursue!
My Gilderoy was ever kind,
He could not injure you!
A long adieu!-but where shall fly
Thy widow all forlorn,
When every mean and cruel eye
Regards my wo with scorn?
Yes! they will mock thy widow's tears,
And hate thy orphan boy!
Alas! his infant beauty wears
The form of Gilderoy.
Then will I seek the dreary mound
That wraps thy mouldering clay,
And weep, and linger on the ground,
And sigh my heart away!
WHEN the last sunshine of expiring day,
In Summer's twilight sweeps itself away;
Who hath not felt the softness of the hour,
Sink on the heart, as dew along the flower,
With a pure feeling which absorbs and awes,
While nature makes that melancholy pause,
Her breathing moment on the bridge, where time,
Of light and darkness, forms an arch sublime?
Who hath not shar'd that calm, so still and deep,
The voiceless thought, which would not speak, but weep,
A holy concord, and a bright regret,
A glorious sympathy with suns that set?
'Tis not harsh sorrow, but a tenderer wo,
Nameless, but dear to gentle hearts below:
Felt, without bitterness, but full and clear,
A sweet dejection, a transparent tear,
Unmix'd with worldly grief, or selfish stain,
Shed without shame, and secret without pain.
Even as the tenderness that hour instils,
When summer's day declines, along the hills,
So feels the fulness of our heart and eyes,
When all of genius which can perish, dies!
A mighty spirit is eclipsed-a power
Hath pass'd from day to darkness-to whose hour
Of light, no likeness is bequeath'd-no name,
Focus at once of all the rays of fame!
The flash of wit-the bright intelligence-
The beam of song-the blaze of eloquence-
Set with their sun-but still have left behind
The enduring produce of immortal mind;
Fruits of a genial morn and glorious noon,
A deathless part of him, who died too soon!
But small that portion of the wondrous whole,
These sparkling segments of that circling soul,
Which all embrac'd and lightened over all,
To cheer, to pierce-to please or to appal;
From the charm'd council to the festive board,
Of human feelings the unbounded Lord,
In whose acclaim the loftiest voices vied
The prais'd-the proud-who made his praise their pride,
When the loud cry of trampled Hindostan,
Arose to heaven, in her appeal to man,
His was the thunder-his the avenging rod,
The wrath-the delegated voice of God—
Which shook the nations, through his lips, and blaz'd
Till vanquish'd senates trembled as they prais'd.
And here-O here, where yet, all young
The gay creations of his spirit charm,
The matchless dialogue-the deathless wit;
Which knew not what it was to intermit,
The glowing portraits, fresh from life, that bring
Home to our hearts the truth from which they spring;
These wondrous beings of his fancy, wrought
To fulness by the fiat of his thought,
Here in their first shade you still may meet,
Bright with the hues of his Promethean heat;
A halo of the light of other days,
Which still the splendour of its orb betrays!
But, should there be, to whom the fatal blight
Of failing wisdom yields a base delight-
Men, who exult, when minds of heavenly tone
Jar in the music which was born their own;
Still, let them pause! Ah, little do they know
That what to them seem'd vice might be but wo!
Hard is his fate, on whom the public gaze
Is fix'd for ever to detract or praise!
Repose denies her requiem to his name,
And Folly loves the martyrdom of Fame!
The secret enemy, whose sleepless eye
Stands sentinel, accuser, judge, and spy-
The foe-the fool-the jealous-and the vain,
The envious, who but breathe in others' pain-
Behold the Host; delighting to deprave,
Who track the steps of Glory to the grave;
Watch every fault that daring genius owes
Half to the ardour which its birth bestows,
Distort the truth-accumulate the lie,
And pile the pyramid of calumny!
These are his portion!-but if joined to these
Gaunt Poverty should league with deep disease,
If the high Spirit must forget to soar,
And stoop to strive with misery at the door,
To soothe Indignity-and, face to face,
Meet sordid Rage-and wrestle with disgrace-
To find in Hope but the renew'd caress,
The serpent-fold of further Faithlessness-
If such may be the ills which man assail,
What marvel if, at last, the mightiest fail?
Breasts to whom all the strength of feeling given,
Bear hearts electric-charg'd with fire from heaven!
Black with the rude collision, inly torn,
By clouds surrounded, and by whirlwinds borne,
Driven o'er the lowering atmosphere, that nurst
Thoughts which have turn'd to thunder-scorch-and
burst.
But far from us, and from our mimic scene,
Such things should be, if such have ever been!
Ours be the gentler wish-the kinder task,
To give the tribute Glory need not ask!
To mourn the vanish'd beam, and add our mite
Of praise, in payment of a long delight!
Ye Orators, whom yet our councils yield,
Mourn for the veteran hero of your field!
The worthy rival of the wondrous three,
Whose words were sparks of immortality!
Ye Bards, to whom the Drama's Muse is dear,
He was your Master-Emulate him here.
Ye men of Wit, and social eloquence,
He was your brother! bear his ashes hence!
While powers of mind almost of boundless range
Complete in kind—as various in their change,
While Eloquence-Wit-Poesy, and Mirth,
That humbler Harmonist of care on Earth-
Survive within our souls-while lives our sense,
Of pride in Merit's proud pre-eminence,
Long shall we seek his likeness-long in vain,
And turn to all of him which may remain,
Sighing that Nature form'd but one such man,
And broke the die-in moulding Sheridan!
The Dream of Eugene Aram.
'Twas in the prime of summer time,
An evening calm and cool,
And four and twenty happy boys
Came bounding out of school:
There were some that ran, and some that leapt,
Like troutlets in a pool.
Away they sped with gamesome minds,
And souls untouch'd by sin;
To a level mead they came, and there
They drave the wickets in:
Pleasantly shone the setting sun
Over the town of Lynn.
Like sportive deer they coursed about,
And shouted as they ran,-
Turning to mirth all things of earth,
As only boyhood can;
But the Usher sat remote from all,
A melancholy man!
His hat was off, his vest apart,
To catch heaven's blessed breeze;
For a burning thought was in his brow,
And his bosom ill at ease:
So he lean'd his head on his hands, and read
The book between his knees!
Leaf after leaf, he turn'd it o'er,
Nor ever glanced aside;
For the peace of his soul he read that bock
In the golden eventide:
Much study had made him very lean,
And pale, and leaden-eyed.
At last he shut the ponderous tome,
With a fast and fervent grasp
He strain'd the dusky covers close,
And fix'd the brazen hasp:
"Oh God! could I so close my mind,
And clasp it with a clasp!"
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