Imágenes de páginas

And oft his cogitations sink as low

As, through the abysses of a joyless heart,
The heaviest plummet of despair can go ;

But whence that sudden check? that fearful start!
He hears an uncouth sound.

Anon his lifted eyes

Saw at a long-drawn gallery's dusky bound,
A Shape of more than mortal size

And hideous aspect, stalking round and round!
A woman's garb the Phantom wore,

And fiercely swept the marble floor, –
Like Auster whirling to and fro,

His force on Caspian foam to try;
Or Boreas when he scours the snow
That skins the plains of Thessaly,
Or when aloft on Mænalus he stops
His flight, 'mid eddying pine-tree tops!



So, but from toil less sign of profit reaping,
The sullen Spectre to her purpose bowed,

Sweeping- vehemently sweeping – No pause admitted, no design avowed!

"Avaunt, inexplicable Guest! — avaunt,"

Exclaimed the Chieftain "Let me rather see

The coronal that coiling vipers make ;

The torch that flames with many a lurid flake,
And the long train of doleful pageantry

Which they behold, whom vengeful Furies haunt;
Who, while they struggle from the scourge to flee,
Move where the blasted soil is not unworn,

And, in their anguish, bear what other minds have borne !"


But Shapes that come not at an earthly call,
Will not depart when mortal voices bid;
Lords of the visionary Eye whose lid,

Once raised, remains aghast and will not fall!
Ye Gods, thought He, that servile Implement
Obeys a mystical intent!

Your Minister would brush away

The spots that to my soul adhere;

But should she labour night and day,

They will not, cannot disappear;

Whence angry perturbations, and that look


Which no Philosophy can brook!



Ill-fated Chief! there are whose hopes are built
Upon the ruins of thy glorious name;

Who, through the portal of one moment's guilt,
Pursue thee with their deadly aim!

O matchless perfidy! portentous lust

Of monstrous crime ! — that horror-striking blade,
Drawn in defiance of the Gods, hath laid
The noble Syracusan low in dust!

Shudder the walls the marble city wept

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And sylvan places heaved a pensive sigh;
But in calm peace the appointed Victim slept,
As he had fallen in magnanimity:

Of spirit too capacious to require

That Destiny her course should change; too just
To his own native greatness to desire

That wretched boon, days lengthened by mistrust.
So were the hopeless troubles, that involved
The soul of Dion, instantly dissolved.
Released from life and cares of princely state,
He left this moral grafted on his Fate,

"Him only pleasure leads, and peace attends, Him, only him, the shield of Jove defends, Whose means are fair and spotless as his ends."




to register; a key –

That winds through secret wards;

Are well assigned to Memory

By allegoric Bards.

As aptly, also, might be given

A Pencil to her hand;

That, softening objects, sometimes even

Outstrips the heart's demana;

That smooths foregone distress, the lines

Of lingering care subdues,

Long-vanished happiness refines,

And clothes in brighter hues :

Yet, like a tool of Fancy, works

Those Spectres to dilate

That startle Conscience, as she lurks

Within her lonely seat.

O! that our lives, which flee so fast,

In purity were such,

That not an image of the past

Should fear that pencil's touch!

Retirement then might hourly look

Upon a soothing scene,

Age steal to his allotted nook,
Contented and serene;

With heart as calm as Lakes that sleep,
In frosty moonlight glistening;
Or mountain Rivers, where they creep
Along a channel smooth and deep,

To their own far-off murmurs listening.

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