XVII

And her lank hand lay on his shuddering brain, But each power was nerved by fear, "I never, henceforth, may breathe again; anguished pain.

Death now ends mine

The grave yawns,

we meet there."

XVIII

And her skeleton lungs did utter the sound,
So deadly, so lone and so fell

That in long vibrations shuddered the ground;
And, as the stern notes floated around,
A deep groan was answered from hell.

IV

ST. IRVYNE'S TOWER

I

How swiftly through heaven's wide expanse Bright day's resplendent colors fade! How sweetly does the moonbeam's glance With silver tint St. Irvyne's glade!

II

No cloud along the spangled air,

Is borne upon the evening breeze; How solemn is the scene! how fair The moonbeams rest upon the trees!

St. Irvyne's Tower, Rossetti || Song, Shelley.

III

Yon dark gray turret glimmers white,
Upon it sits the mournful owl;
Along the stillness of the night
Her melancholy shriekings roll.

IV

But not alone on Irvyne's tower
The silver moonbeam pours her ray;

It gleams upon the ivied bower,
It dances in the cascade's spray.

"Ah! why do darkening shades conceal

The hour when man must cease to be?
Why may not human minds unveil
The dim mists of futurity?

VI

"The keenness of the world hath torn The heart which opens to its blast; Despised, neglected, and forlorn,

Sinks the wretch in death at last."

V

BEREAVEMENT

I

How stern are the woes of the desolate mourner, As he bends in still grief o'er the hallowed bier, Bereavement, Rossetti || Song, Shelley.

As enanguished he turns from the laugh of the

scorner,

And drops to perfection's remembrance a tear; When floods of despair down his pale cheek are streaming,

When no blissful hope on his bosom is beaming, Or, if lulled for a while, soon he starts from his dreaming,

And finds torn the soft ties to affection so dear.

II

Ah! when shall day dawn on the night of the grave, Or summer succeed to the winter of death? Rest awhile, hapless victim, and Heaven will save The spirit that faded away with the breath. Eternity points in its amaranth bower,

Where no clouds of fate o'er the sweet prospect lower,

Unspeakable pleasure, of goodness the dower, When woe fades away like the mist of the heath.

VI

THE DROWNED LOVER

I

АH! faint are her limbs, and her footstep is weary, Yet far must the desolate wanderer roam; Though the tempest is stern, and the mountain is dreary,

She must quit at deep midnight her pitiless home.

The Drowned Lover, Dowden || The Lake-Storm, Rossetti, Song, Shelley.

I see her swift foot dash the dew from the whortle, As she rapidly hastes to the green grove of myrtle; And I hear, as she wraps round her figure the kirtle, "Stay thy boat on the lake, dearest Henry, I come."

II

High swelled in her bosom the throb of affection,
As lightly her form bounded over the lea,
And arose in her mind every dear recollection ;

"I come, dearest Henry, and wait but for thee." How sad, when dear hope every sorrow is soothing, When sympathy's swell the soft bosom is moving, And the mind the mild joys of affection is proving, Is the stern voice of fate that bids happiness flee!

III

Oh! dark lowered the clouds on that horrible eve, And the moon dimly gleamed through the tem

pested air;

Oh how could fond visions such softness deceive?

Oh! how could false hope rend a bosom so fair? Thy love's pallid corse the wild surges are laving, O'er his form the fierce swell of the tempest is raving ;

But fear not, parting spirit; thy goodness is saving, In eternity's bowers, a seat for thee there.

POSTHUMOUS FRAGMENTS

OF

MARGARET NICHOLSON;

BEING POEMS FOUND AMONGST THE PAPERS OF THAT NOTED FEMALE WHO ATTEMPTED THE LIFE OF

THE KING IN 1786.

EDITED BY JOHN FITZVICTOR

ADVERTISEMENT

The energy and native genius of these Fragments must be the only apology which the Editor can make for thus intruding them on the Public Notice. The first I found with no title, and have left it so. It is intimately connected with the dearest interests of universal happiness; and much as we may deplore the fatal and enthusiastic tendency which the ideas of this poor female had acquired, we cannot fail to pay the tribute of unequivocal regret to the departed memory of genius, which, had it been rightly organized, would have made that intellect, which has since become the victim of frenzy and despair, a most brilliant ornament to society.

In case the sale of these Fragments evinces that the Public have any curiosity to be presented with a more copious collection of my unfortunate Aunt's Poems, I have other papers in my possession, which shall, in that case, be subjected to their notice. It may be supposed they require much arrangement; but I send the following to the press in the same state in which they came into my possession. J. F.

Posthumous Fragments. Published by Shelley, Oxford, 1810.