 | Poems |  |
173
STANZAS.
O Memory! nymph for ever fond!
Arraying all the bitter past
Before the eye—while all beyond
Fancy depicts a lonely waste.
Delighting, and deluding e'er,
Enchanting now, and all anon
Blasting our joys with a sullen sneer,
And smiling when bright hope is gone.
Arraying all the bitter past
Before the eye—while all beyond
Fancy depicts a lonely waste.
Delighting, and deluding e'er,
Enchanting now, and all anon
Blasting our joys with a sullen sneer,
And smiling when bright hope is gone.
Gilding with love the raptured vision
Retracing every youthful scene,
And tearing with a fierce derision
Every form that smiles serene;—
Away with all your false Mnemonics,
Lave the soul in Lethe's stream,
The boiling blood demands not tonics,
O plunge the brain in a wanton dream.
Retracing every youthful scene,
And tearing with a fierce derision
Every form that smiles serene;—
Away with all your false Mnemonics,
Lave the soul in Lethe's stream,
The boiling blood demands not tonics,
O plunge the brain in a wanton dream.
The eye of love, caress of beauty,
The bliss of friendship, pleasure's tone,
The holy deeds of cheering duty,
All have died—and I am lone;
Every hope of earth is fickle,
Glowing—veiled in stygian blackness,
Tears of writhing anguish trickle,—
Every genial ray is trackless.
The bliss of friendship, pleasure's tone,
The holy deeds of cheering duty,
All have died—and I am lone;
Every hope of earth is fickle,
Glowing—veiled in stygian blackness,
Tears of writhing anguish trickle,—
Every genial ray is trackless.
174
O if our being were a blank,
A void of all that cheers or saddens,
If nor Love nor Hate grew wild and rank,
Nor this depresses, nor that gladdens;
If life unconscious wore away,
And brutal instinct all supplied—
What were the creature of a day?
A feather on the warring tide.
A void of all that cheers or saddens,
If nor Love nor Hate grew wild and rank,
Nor this depresses, nor that gladdens;
If life unconscious wore away,
And brutal instinct all supplied—
What were the creature of a day?
A feather on the warring tide.
Ah! we must linger on the brink
Of dark despair's wild precipice,
And we must gaze—and we must think
Upon the scenes that ne'er entice,
Upon the agony below!
And shudder ne'er, but rive the foot
With the hard rock, and heed not wo,
Nor list the sound of the silver lute.
Of dark despair's wild precipice,
And we must gaze—and we must think
Upon the scenes that ne'er entice,
Upon the agony below!
And shudder ne'er, but rive the foot
With the hard rock, and heed not wo,
Nor list the sound of the silver lute.
The passion strong, the thought intense,
Feeling acute, conception dear,
Launching in high magnificence,
Will strand on deep reefs dread and drear,
And all, that youth or age has given,
Amid the false world's shivering shock,
Is lost and dead—and nought but heaven
Can mind recover from the stroke.
Feeling acute, conception dear,
Launching in high magnificence,
Will strand on deep reefs dread and drear,
And all, that youth or age has given,
Amid the false world's shivering shock,
Is lost and dead—and nought but heaven
Can mind recover from the stroke.
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