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Thus busy to no end, till, out of breath,
So when the sun rolls down the etherial plain, Extinct his splendours in the whelming main, A transient night earth, air, and heaven invades, Eclipsed in horrors of surrounding shades, But soon emerging with a fresher ray, He starts exultant, and renews the day.
THE CONSOLER. It seemed as Nature's flame were dead !—No beam From sun or moon diffused its cheering gleam O’er that dark sky, at morn which seem'd so fair, It thence seem'd darker now. The murky air, Close, thick, and lowering, with its burthen press'd The spirits down, and clogg'd the labouring breast. The birds were silent on the leafless spray; And wild and waste the soul's Elysium lay, Spoil'd of its floral treasure. Cankerous Want And Sorrow's worm had kill'd Health's blooming
plant: Hope, the fond sunflower, turned no more its eye Where orient lustre fired the eastern sky: The primrose, Youth, was dead, untimely dead; The lilly, Virtue, lived, but droop'd its head; And Bliss (that empress-rose,whose odorous power And blushing cups at morn's delicious hour Pour'd on my senses from its emerald seats A blaze of beauties and a cloud of sweets), Now, lost its glowing gems and green attire, Met my sad eyes a rude unsightly briar, Menaced my hand with thorns, as near I drew, And wept its ravish'd flowers in tears of dew.
Oh! I was sad at soul!-No aid was nigh, No present joy, no future hope !—Mine eye Where'er in suppliant anxious search I turn’d, 'Twas anguish, 'twas despair !—My bosom burn'd, My heart was broken! Now in sullen mood And dull dark apathy I silent stood, Like one to marble changed: and now again Wild Memory flashed her torch athwart my brain, And fired it into madness. Then the ground I struck with throbbing front, and scatter'd round
Locks of torn hair; and still in frantic tone
When lo! as thus in maniac state I lay,
ne'er Had known the withering touch of guilt or care. A bowl, around whose brim the poppy reign’d, In her right hand she bore: Her left sustain'd. A mirror, on whose polish'd breast were shown A thousand mingled shapes of things unknown, Where Fancy bade the enraptured thought unite All that was pure and precious, fair and bright. Yet what those objects were, in vain mine eyes I strain’d to know; for still would mists arise, Which o'er the crystal surface as they play'd Confounded light with light, and shade with shade. Yetoh! so beauteous show'd those clouded views, So bright those doubtful forms and blended hues, I thought, while gazing on their lines obscure, All witness'd pomp seem'd mean, all dreams of
wealth seem'd poor!
She waved her hand; the clouds dispersed !
'tis true, The gaudy sun no dazzling lustre threw Athwart heaven's vault; but that clear tranquil Whose sober hue attends on closing day, (gray, Stole o'er the skies, eye-soothing !-On the dame With lofty head and port majestic came; And, as she pass'd, oft cropt some drooping flower, Whose beauties bloom'd unmark'd in sunless bower, Till pluck'd by her, then first perceived the eye, Its form how graceful, and how rich its dye. As on she moved, Want, Sorrow, Pain, and Care Fled from her glance, and sought less sacred air. Soothed by her voice, inveterate Malice pour'd His arrows at her feet, and broke his sword. Deep Slumber bound the Passions' stormy train; No more did Slander hiss, or hiss'd in vain: And where that Matron's hallow'd step once trod Envy herself with flowers oft dress'd the sod.
With awful hope I gazed, while near she drew, And from her bowl on my parch'd forehead threw Some opiate drops.-Oh! then how swift my soul Cast off her burthen! Grateful languor stole O’er all my frame, and soon my temples round Sleep with soft hand her wreath of poppies bound. Yet ere I sank to rest- Oh! thou,' I said, • Pain's readiest balm, and Sorrow's surest aid, Whose power can every pang and care repel, Oh! Friend of Misery, deign thy name to tell!
I paused.—The gracious smile consent reveald; With holiest kiss my wearied eyes she seal’d; And while her lips inhaled my sighing breath, Softly she whisper'd—Friend, my name is Death.'
M. G. LEWIS.
THERE is a calm for those that weep,
A rest for weary pilgrims found, They softly lie and sweetly sleep
Low the ground. The storm that wrecks the wintry sky
No more disturbs their deep repose Than summer evening's latest sigh
That shuts the rose. I long to lay this painful head
And aching heart beneath the soil, To slumber in that dreamless bed
From all my toil, For misery stole me at my birth,
And cast me helpless on the wild; I perish;~0 my Mother Earth!
Take home thy child! On thy dear lap these limbs reclined,
Shall gently moulder into thee;
My pulse, my brain runs wild,--I rave ;-Ah! who art thou whose voice I hear?
"I am the Grave! · The Grave, that never spake before,
Hath found at length a tongue to chide: O listen - I will speak no more :
Be silent, pride!