Yet to enthusiast ears the murmurs tell Which tears from earth peace, innocence and love. FRAGMENT SUPPOSED TO BE AN EPITHALAMIUM OF FRANCIS RAVAILLAC AND CHARLOTTE CORDAY 'Tis midnight now-athwart the murky air Dank lurid meteors shoot a livid gleam; From the dark storm-clouds flashes a fearful glare, It shows the bending oak, the roaring stream. I pondered on the woes of lost mankind, I pondered on the ceaseless rage of kings; My rapt soul dwelt upon the ties that bind The mazy volume of commingling things, When fell and wild misrule to man stern sorrow brings. I heard a yell—it was not the knell, When the blasts on the wild lake sleep, That floats on the pause of the summer gale's swell O'er the breast of the waveless deep. I thought it had been death's accents cold I laid mine hot head on the surge-beaten mould, But a heavenly sleep That did suddenly steep In balm my bosom's pain, Pervaded my soul, And free from control Did mine intellect range again. Methought enthroned upon a silvery cloud, And spurned the lessening realms of earthly night. What heavenly notes burst on my ravished ears, What beauteous spirits met my dazzled eye! Hark! louder swells the music of the spheres, More clear the forms of speechless bliss float by, And heavenly gestures suit ethereal melody. But fairer than the spirits of the air, More graceful than the Sylph of symmetry, Than the enthusiast's fancied love more fair, Were the bright forms that swept the azure sky. Enthroned in roseate light, a heavenly band Strewed flowers of bliss that never fade away; They welcome virtue to its native land, And songs of triumph greet the joyous day When endless bliss the woes of fleeting life repay. Congenial minds will seek their kindred soul, E'en though the tide of time has rolled between ; They mock weak matter's impotent control, And seek of endless life the eternal scene. At death's vain summons this will never die, Thy soul, O Charlotte, 'yond this chain of clay, To him who thine must be till time shall fade away. Yes, Francis! thine was the dear knife that tore A tyrant's heartstrings from his guilty breast; Thine was the daring at a tyrant's gore To smile in triumph, to contemn the rest; And thine, loved glory of thy sex! to tear From its base shrine a despot's haughty soul, To laugh at sorrow in secure despair, To mock, with smiles, life's lingering control, And triumph mid the griefs that round thy fate did roll. Yes! the fierce spirits of the avenging deep He hastes along the burning soil of hell; "Welcome, thou despots, to my dark domain ! With maddening joy mine anguished senses swell To welcome to their home the friends I love so well." Hark! to those notes, how sweet, how thrilling sweet They echo to the sound of angels feet. Oh, haste to the bower where roses are spread, Stay, ye days of contentment and joy, And if any soft passion be near, Which mortals, frail mortals, can know, Let love shed on the bosom a tear, And dissolve the chill ice-drop of woe. SYMPHONY FRANCIS Soft, my dearest angel stay, Oh! you suck my soul away; CHARLOTTE Oh! yes, I will kiss thine eyes so fair, Serene is the breath of the balmy air, But I think, love, thou feelest me warm. And I will recline on thy marble neck And I will kiss the rose on thy cheek, Spirits! when raptures move, When passion's tear stands on the cheek, DESPAIR AND canst thou mock mine agony, thus calm |