The Harp of Erin Containing the Poetical Works of the Late Thomas Dermody. In Two Volumes |
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MELANCHOLY. |
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 | The Harp of Erin |  |
MELANCHOLY.
'Tis night—and this the silent hourWhen Melancholy seeks her bow'r
Of sablest yew, embrowned deep,
To fold her drooping arms, and weep.
Sad syren stay! intrusive maid!
And I will follow to the glade,
And join my dirge of woe with thine;
And statue-fixt, at Horror's shrine,
My dark, nocturnal pray'rs rehearse
In cadence low of saddest verse;
Verse, such as once Medea pay'd
To the drear habitants of shade;
Verse, such as fits the leaden ear
Of listless, gorgon-ey'd Despair!
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And you, grim messengers, that throng
About the new-made grave, and steal
The heart's blood, mark'd with many a spell,
And petrify'd to purple stone
For causes yet unheard, unknown.
Hush!—busy elves, that ply around;
Lay light your wings in slumber bound,
'Tis silence, soft, and sad, and slow,
With cypress stole, and veil of snow,
That creeps, (aye, startling at each breeze
That rushes through the shudd'ring trees)
Along yon aisle of dismal hue,
Faint flashes from the taper blue,
Lending a momentary glimpse, to show
Where the dumb victims lye below!
And who those fiends that after come,
Wrapt in the thickest garb of gloom?
My blood is froze, my pulse is still!
'Tis pale Remorse, whose vitals feel
Ten thousand restless vultures gnaw,
And Conscience, with her bloody maw!
'Tis Murder—see his eyeballs gleam
Red lightning! and his glances stream
Along the dagger's azure line.
But hark! what noise invades the shrine,
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'Tis felon Force, that dare oppose
The flight of ghastly Fear!—Behold
Squadrons of glassy sprites unfold
The shrinking wretch—his blasted eyes
Sink inward—oh! he faints, he dies!
They come, they swarm! terrific all!
Heav'n's! let the hideous fabric fall.
| The Harp of Erin | |