 | Landscapes in verse |  |
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In his embrace, he fell—then starting rose
And hasted onward.—Frantic, to the hut
He bore his watry burthen—on the bed—
(By a fond matron's hands so late prepar'd
To fold a virtuous pair—with flow'rets gay,
May blooms, and all the incense of the spring,
Cull'd by a father's hand) frantic, he laid
This lovelier flower than ever Eden grew,
Or Paradise could boast—frantic, he clung
Around the breathless body of the maid,
In death as life ador'd—and frantic still,
Alas! he lives—if life it may be call'd,
From fair society shut out—the pride
Of man's supremacy shook from its seat,
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If this be life, he lives; in yonder dome
Thou may'st behold the ruins of Agenor,
Ruins that ask no fetter, clank no chain:
His rage is fled—sad Melancholy's power
Has made his breast her mansion—there she broods
And rears her gloomy throne—and mixes sighs,
And mingles tears, and blends her groans with his.
While Melancholy seems, alas! to love
Whom thus she grieves: but he, poor luckless youth,
Soften'd by suffering, finds a charm in woe;
And oft he calls upon his Fanny lost,
And oft in mystic characters he carves
Her fancied image on the walls around;
Then tells how blest he is, if chance he shapes
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Some gift or garland that may speak his love.
| Landscapes in verse | |