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Oh! did you not hear a voice of death?
And did you not mark the paly form Which rode on the silver mist of the heath,
And sung a ghostly dirge in the storm ?
Was it a wailing bird of the gloom,
Which shrieks on the house of woe all night? Or a shivering fiend that flew to a tomb,
To howl and to feed till the glance of light ?
'Twas not the death-bird's cry from the wood,
Nor shivering fiend that bung in the blast; 'Twas the shade of Helderic-man of blood-
It screams for the guilt of days that are past !
See how the red, red lightning strays,
And scares the gliding ghosts of the heath! Now on the leafless yew it plays
Where hangs the shield of this son of death !
That shield is blushing with murderous stains ;
Long has it hung from the cold yew's spray ; It is blown by storms and washed by rains,
But neither can take the blood away.
Oft by that yew, on the blasted field,
Demons dance to the red moon's light; While the damp boughs creak, and the swinging shield
Sings to the raving spirit of night !
On beds of snow the moonbeam slept,
And chilly was the midnight gloom,
Sweet maid ! it was her Lindor's tomb!
A warm tear gushed, the wintry air
Congealed it as it flowed away;
At morn it glittered in the ray!
An angel, wandering from her sphere
Who saw this bright, this frozen gem,
And hung it on her (liadem !
I THOUGHT this heart consuming lay
On Cupid's burning shrine :
And placed it near to mine.
Like ice before the sun ;
And mingled into one !
TO A LADY.
ON HER SINGING.
The song has taught my heart to feel
Those soothing thoughts of leavenly love,
When listening to the spheres above !
I wish to sigh my latest breath,
And thou shalt sing me into death!
That smile of heavenly softness play,
So oft has stolen my mind away ;
That comes to charm me into bliss :
and die-who would not die,
WRITTEN IN A COMMON-PLACE BOOK, CALLED
“THE BOOK OF FOLLIES. In which every one that opened it should contribute something.
TO THE BOOK OF FOLLJES.
This tribute's from a wretched elf,
That those who judge not too severely
Oh ! if your tears are given to care,
If real woe disturbs your peace,
And I will bid your weeping cease.
But if with Fancy's visioned fears,
With dreams of woe your bosom thrill;
That I must bid you drop them still !
'Neither do I condemn thee: go, and sin no more.'-ST. JOHN, chap. viii.
O WOMAN! if by simple wile
Thy soul has strayed from honour's track,
By gentle ways, the wanderer back.
Washed by thy tears, may yet decay ;
May all be wept in showers away.
Go, go-be innocent, and live
The tongnes of men may wound thee sore ;
And bids thee 'go, and sin no more !!
Of footstep, coming soft and light !
That foot that comes so soft at night!
Though still the western clouds are bright;
With those we love, exchanged at night!
That's hid by darkness from the sight!
Is telling from the soul at night!
TO.'Moria pur quando vuol, non è bisogna mutar ni faccia ni voce per essèr un Angelo'
DIE when you will, you need not wear
Than beauty here on earth has given;
An angel ready-made for heaven !
Fanny, dearest, for thee I'd sigh ;
To tears when thou art nigh.
So busy a life I live,
Is more than my heart can give.
Then bid me not to despair and pine,
Fanny, dearest of all the dears!
Would be sure to take cold in tears.
Reflected bright in this heart of mine,
Fanny, dearest, thy image lies ;
If dimmed too often with sighs.
They lose the half of beauty's light,
Who view it through sorrow's tear:
That I keep my eye-beam clear.
Then wait no longer til tears shall flow,
Fanny, dearest-the hope is vain ;
I shall never attempt it with rain.
But a thousand temptations beset me,
How delicious 'twould be - if you'd let me!
Then be not so angry for what I have done,
Nor say that you've sworn to forget me ;
And I thought that-yon could not but let me ! When your lip with a whisper came close to my check,
O think how bewitching it met me!
Your eye seemed to say-you would let me!
Then forgive the transgression, and bid me remain,
For in truth, if I go, you'll regret me; Or, oh !-let me try
the transgression again, And I'll do all you wish---will you let me ?
LIOSIT SOUNDS THE HARP.
When heroes are resting, and joy is in bloom ;
And Cupid makes wings of the warrior's plume.