To know in dissolution's void That mortals' baubles, sunk, decay,— Perish her sceptred sway; From Death's pale front fade Pride's fastidious frown; 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! Oh! not the king around whose dazzling throne His countless courtiers mock the words they say Triumphs amid the buds of glory blown As I in this cold bed and faint expiring groan! Tremble, ye proud, whose grandeur mocks the woe Tremble, ye conquerors, at whose fell command Shall bear from victory along Oxford, 1810, To that mysterious strand. POSTHUMOUS FRAGMENTS OF Being Poems found amongst the Papers of that noted Female, who attempted the life of the King in 1786. Edited by John Fitzvictor. [Oxford, Printed and sold by J. Munday, 1810.] ADVERTISEMENT. THE energy and native genius of these Fragments must be the only apology which the Editor can make for thus intruding them on the public notice. The first I found with no title, and have left it so. It is intimately connected with the dearest interests of universal happiness; and, much as we may deplore the fatal and enthusiastic tendency which the ideas of this poor female had acquired, we cannot fail to pay the tribute of unequivocal regret to the departed memory of genius which, had it been rightly organized, would have made that intellect, which had since become the victim of frenzy and despair, a most brilliant ornament to society. In case the sale of these Fragments evinces that the public have any curiosity to be presented with a more copious collection of my unfortunate Aunt's poems, I have other papers in my possession which shall, in that case, be subjected to their notice. It may be supposed they require much arrangement: but I send the following to the in the same state in which they came into my possession. press J. F. FRAGMENT, SUPPOSED TO BE AN EPITHALAMIUM OF FRANCIS RAVAILLAC AND CHARLOTTE CORDAY. I. 'Tis midnight now. Athwart the murky air Dank lurid meteors shoot a livid gleam; From the dark storm-clouds flashes a fearful glare,— It shows the bending oak, the roaring stream. I pondered on the woes of lost mankind, I pondered on the ceaseless rage of kings; The mazy volume of commingling things, II. I heard a yell! It was not the knell When the blasts on the wild lake sleep, I thought it had been Death's accents cold I laid mine hot head on the surge-beaten mould, But a heavenly sleep, that did suddenly steep Pervaded my soul; and free from control III. Methought, enthroned upon a silvery cloud, And spurned the lessening realms of earthly night. But fairer than the spirits of the air, More graceful than the sylph of symmetry, And songs of triumph greet the joyous day Congenial minds will seek their kindred soul, Thy soul, O Charlotte, 'yond this chain of clay Yes, Francis! thine was the dear knife that tore A tyrant's heart-strings from his guilty breast; Thine was the daring at a tyrant's gore To smile in triumph, to contemn the rest : And thine, loved glory of thy sex! to tear To mock with smiles life's lingering control, And triumph 'mid the griefs that round thy fate did roll. Yes! the fierce spirits of the avenging deep With endless tortures goad their guilty shades! I see the lank and ghastly spectres sweep He hastes along the burning soil of hell :— "Welcome, thou despots, to my dark domain! With maddening joy mine anguished senses swell To welcome to their home the friends I love so well!" IV. Hark to those notes! How sweet, how thrilling sweet, They echo to the sound of angels' feet! V. Oh! haste to the bower where roses are spread, Oh! haste!.. Hark, hark! . . They're gone! VI. CHORUS OF SPIRITS. Stay, ye days of contentment and joy, 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 icedrop of woe. VII. SYMPHONY. FRANCIS. Soft, my dearest angel, stay! Oh! you suck my soul away! Suck on, suck on! I glow, I glow! And streams of rapture drown my soul! 2 K Now give me one more billing kiss— VIII. CHARLOTTE. Oh yes! I will kiss thine eyes so fair, Serene is the breath of the balmy air, But I think, love, thou feelest me warm! And I will kiss the rose on thy cheek, And thou shalt give kisses to me ;- IX. Spirits, when raptures move, When passion's tear stands on the cheek, And the tremulous lips dare not speak But what is sweeter to Revenge's ear Yes! than love's sweetest blisses 'tis more dear AND canst thou mock mine agony, thus calm In cloudless radiance, Queen of silver night? |