Oh! deign those tortures to appease, That prey upon my aching breast: Each doubt, each fear shall learn to cease, If with thy love I still am blest; Chearful I'll meet the varied pains, That hard Necessity ordains,
And not a sigh my breast shall flee, Unless that sigh be breath'd for thee.
My aspect, late so pale and wan, That wore no dress, but that of sorrow, Shall bid its cloud of grief be gone, And from thy smiles new pleasure borrow: And when my love thou deign'st to meet, With transport high my heart shall beat, And should it sigh, its sighs shall be Of pleasure born and love of thee.
Descende cælo, et die age tibia Regina longum Calliope melos; Seu voce nunc mavis acuta, Seu fidibus, citharâ ve Phœbi.
WHO shall awake with magic song The wildly-throbbing soul? Who dart the Muses light along, And bid her thunders roll?
Or who with strain of gentlest note In low and liquid warblings float, Soft stealing thro' the silent air, While Pity breathes her mildest lay, And from her eye's Aprilian ray, Slow drops a quiv'ring tear?
Sublimity's enraptur'd child,
Say, whither art thou fled? Gone to awake with music wild
The slumbers of the dead?
Or dost thou still, O tearful bard, Lorn Melancholy's wand'rings guard In some remote and solemn grove; With dewy garlands deck the grave, Where Freedom lulls her hapless brave, Or dress the tomb of Love?
Rude Madness, ideot king of pow'r, Who from the Muse's breast
Tore him, that in her sacred bow'r She knew and lov'd the best; Stare not in gloomy silence more Rage all thy storms of passion o'er, And weave the wild'rings of the soul! Pale Collins dropt his sacred lyre;
He saw thy frenzied orbs of fire, Thy meteor eyeballs roll!
Lorn tearful bard, whose wild-wove lay
Each thrilling passion sung ;
When Music now soft died away, Now wild and warlike rung;
I see, I see thy solemn shade
Quick starting from yon haunted glade With tresses tost, and eyes that weep; High o'er the gulf screams Danger loud, And Fear on phantoms wrapt in cloud Howls dreadfully and deep!
Fell Anger with his clenching hand Rude dashes on the lyre;
Wild throws it on the trembling land, And grasps his torch of fire!
-Look, look no more!-In murm'ring low I hear the sigh of anguish flow: Sad Jealousy, away:-'tis thine! Thy hollow smile and fitful sob Too wildly bid my bosom throb !
I do not call thee mine!
Hark! "Tis Revenge, while thunders peal,
With blast of threat'ning breath,
Calls on the fiends that darkling deal
The hidden point of Death! Fierce as he winds the stormy strain, Rise visages that writhe with pain, And hands the purple steel that grasp; At each dread pause wild groans Despair, And dying Pity on the air
Slow heaves a ling ring gasp!
But sounds arise more soft and sweet, Melodiously forlorn;
They breathe thro' yonder green retreat From Melancholy's horn!
Ye glades, repeat the soothing sound,
Ye runnels, steal in warblings round:
From yonder gloom bright visions break!
See Hope her golden tresses wave,
And Joy, whose songs
Soul-soothing bard, in what bright sphere
Now breathes thy sacred lyre?
What angel-youths enraptur'd hear? What heav'nly themes inspire? Thy hand no more sublimely flings Empassion'd horror on its strings, Deep and majestically wild; Peace breathes thro' ev'ry softer lay, And Inspiration's gentlest ray Plays round his warbling child!
Soul-soothing bard, thy shade appears As smiling as thy Muse;
Thy cheek no longer dew'd with tears, Thy hair empearl'd with dews!
Hark! Love to Mirth's enraptur'd strain Trips gaily o'er the laughing plain, And Zephyr breathes his sweetest tale; Brisk Chearfulness the note prolongs, And Echo fills with mingling songs The bosom of the gale!
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