Foul tyrant! o'er the gilded hour That beams with all the blaze of power, Shall howl, with curses deep, and loud, "I see the ghastly spectre rise, "Whose blood is cold, whose hollow eyes • 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- A sharper anguish seems to live 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 catch the parting breath- 'Tis he has dash'd that venom❜d bowl But whence arose that solemn call? For thee I raise this sable pall, • A thousand suns have roll'd, since light See, o'er that tender frame grim famine hangs, 'The last, last drop which warm'd her veins 'That meagre infant drains Then gnaws her fond sustaining breast- 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, But sudden pangs his bosom tear- That sanguine drop which wakes his woe- Ask no more its source to know- • Whence flow'd that drop of human gore, • Unchain'd from earth, and mount the skies, 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 Thy form, benumb'd with wild affright, Why backward turns my frantic eye, Two sullen shades half-seen advance !- 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, Along the dewy path my steps I bend, To muse on youth's wild dreams amid the ruin's hoar. Within the shelter'd centre of the aisle, 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. |