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Foul tyrant! o'er the gilded hour

That beams with all the blaze of power,
'Remorse shall spread her thickest shroud;
The furies in thy tortur'd ear

Shall howl, with curses deep, and loud,
And wake distracting fear!

"I see the ghastly spectre rise,

"Whose blood is cold, whose hollow eyes
'Seem from his head to start-

• With upright hair, and shiv'ring heart, 'Dark o'er thy midnight couch he bends, And clasps thy shrinking frame, thy impious spirit rends.'

Now his thrilling accents die—

His shape eludes my searching eye-
But who is he, convuls'd with pain,
That writhes in every swelling vein?
Yet in so deep so wild a groan,

A sharper anguish seems to live
Than life's expiring pang can give :—

He dies deserted and alone

If pity can allay thy woes

Sad spirit they shall find repose

Thy friend, thy long-lov'd friend is near!
He comes to pour the parting tear,

He comes to catch the parting breath-
Ah heaven! no melting look he wears,
His alter'd eye with vengeance glares;
Each frantic passion at his soul,

'Tis he has dash'd that venom❜d bowl
With agony, and death.

But whence arose that solemn call?
Yon bloody phantom waves his hand,
And beckons me to deeper gloom-
Rest, troubled form! I come
Some unknown power my step impels
To horror's secret cells→→→

For thee I raise this sable pall,
'It shrouds a ghastly band:
'Stretch'd beneath, thy eye shall trace
'A mangled regal race:

• A thousand suns have roll'd, since light
'Rush'd on their solid night-

See, o'er that tender frame grim famine hangs,
And mocks a mother's pangs!

'The last, last drop which warm'd her veins

'That meagre infant drains

Then gnaws her fond sustaining breast-
'Stretch'd on her feeble knees, behold

Another victim sinks to lasting rest

'Another, yet her matron arms would fold "Who strives to reach her matron arms in vain'Too weak her wasted form to raise,

On him she bends her eager gaze;

She sees the soft imploring eye

"That asks her dear embrace, the cure of pain'She sees her child at distance die

'But now her stedfast heart can bear

'Unmov'd, the pressure of despair

• When first the winds of winter urge their course O'er the pure stream, whose current smoothly glides,

The heaving river swells its troubled tides; • But when the bitter blast with keener force, 'O'er the high wave an icy fetter throws, The harden'd wave is fix'd in dead repose.''Say who that hoary form? alone he stands, And meekly lifts his wither'd hands-

His white beard streams with blood

"I see him with a smile, deride

The wounds that pierce his shrivell'd side,
Whence flows a purple flood-

But sudden pangs his bosom tear-
On one big drop of deeper dye,
· I see him fix his haggard eye
In dark and wild despair!

That sanguine drop which wakes his woe-
'Say, spirit! whence its source.'—

Ask no more its source to know-
'Ne'er shall mortal eye explore

• Whence flow'd that drop of human gore,
'Till the starting dead shall rise,

• Unchain'd from earth, and mount the skies,
And time shall end his fated course.'-
'Now th' unfathom'd depth behold—
• Look but once! a second glance

Wraps a heart of human mould

In death's eternal trance.'

That shapeless phantom sinking flow

Deep down the vast abyss below,

'Darts, thro' the mists that shroud his frame, A horror, nature hates to name l'— 'Mortal, could thine eyes behold

All those sullen mists enfold,

Thy sinews at the sight accurst

Would wither, and thy heart-strings burst ; 'Death would grasp with icy hand And drag thee to our grizzly band'Away! the sable pall I spread,

And give to rest th' unquiet dead— 'Haste! ere its horrid shroud enclose

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Thy form, benumb'd with wild affright,
And plunge thee far thro' wastes of night,
In yon black gulph's abhorr'd repose !'
As starting at each step I fly,

Why backward turns my frantic eye,
That closing portal past ?—

Two sullen shades half-seen advance !-
On me, a blasting look they cast,
And fix my view with dang'rous spells,
Where burning phrenzy dwells !—

Again their vengeful look-and now a speechless

*

ODE XX.

NETLEY ABBEY.

BY W. SOTHEBY, ESQ.

SOFT on the wave the oars at distance sound,
The night-breeze sighing through the leafy spray,
With gentle whisper murmurs all around,
Breathes on the placid sea, and dies away.
As sleeps the Moon upon her cloudless height,
And the swoln spring-tide heaves beneath the light,
Slow lingering on the solitary shore

Along the dewy path my steps I bend,
Lonely to yon forsaken fane descend,

To muse on youth's wild dreams amid the ruin's hoar.

Within the shelter'd centre of the aisle,
Beneath the ash, whose growth romantic spreads
Its foliage trembling o'er the funeral pile,

And all around a deeper darkness sheds;

While through yon arch, where the thick ivy twines, Bright on the silver'd tow'r the moon-beam shines, And the grey cloyster's roofless length illumes, Upon the mossy stone I lie reclin'd,

And to a visionary world resign'd,

Call the pale spectres forth from the forgotten tombs.

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