Where some lost maid wild chaplets wreathes, And swan-like, there her own dirge breathes, Then, broken-hearted, sinks to rest, Beneath the bubbling wave that shrouds her maniac breast. Young Love, with eye of tender gloom, Now drooping o'er the hallow'd tomb Where his plighted victims lie,Where they met, but met to die; And now, when crimson buds are sleeping, Through the dewy arbor peeping, Where Beauty's child, the frowning world forgot, To Youth's devoted tale is listening, Rapture on her dark lash glistening, While fairies leave their cowslip cells and guard the happy spot. Thus rise the phantom throng, And lead in willing chains the wondering soul along. With pictur'd Folly gazing fools to shame, And guide young Glory's foot along the path of fame. Lo! hand in hand, Hell's juggling sisters stand, They tempt him to the work of death, Then melt in air, and mock his wondering sight. In midnight's hallow'd hour Her hoarse, prophetic wail, Slowly he steals, with silent tread, And grasps his coward steel to smite his sleeping king! Hark! 'tis the signal bell, Struck by that bold and unsex'd one For other worlds war's Great One sigh'd Whose milk is gall, whose heart is stone; in vain, O'er other worlds see Shakespeare rove and reign! The rapt magician of his own wild lay, Earth and her tribes his mystic wand obey. His ear hath caught the knell,— 'Tis done! 'tis done! Behold him from the chamber rushing Where his dead monarch's blood is gush ing! Look where he trembling stands, Old Ocean trembles, Thunder cracks the Sad gazing there, skies, Life's smoking crimson on his hands, Air teems with shapes, and tell-tale And in his felon heart the worm of wild spectres rise; Night's paltering hags their fearful orgies keep, despair! Mark the sceptred traitor slumbering! And faithless Guilt unseals the lip of There flit the slaves of conscience round, All, all come forth,-the good to charm For him the vulture sits on yonder misty To scourge bold Vice, and start the gen- And chides the lagging night, and whets erous tear; her hungry beak. Hark! the trumpet's warning breath Echoes round the vale of death. Unhorsed, unhelm'd, disdaining shield, The panting tyrant scours the field. Vengeance! he meets thy dooming blade! The scourge of earth, the scorn of Heaven, He falls unwept and unforgiven, And all his guilty glories fade. Like a crush'd reptile in the dust he lies, And Hate's last lightning quivers from his eyes! Behold yon crownless king, Yon white-lock'd, weeping sire,— Where heaven's unpillar'd chambers ring, And burst their streams of flood and fire! He gave them all, the daughters of his love; That recreant pair! they drive him forth to rove TO VINCENT CORBET, MY SON. Nor too much wealth nor wit come to thee, I wish thee all thy mother's graces, |