The poetical works of Samuel Rogers with a memoir by Edward Bell |
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 | The poetical works of Samuel Rogers |  |
I. 1.
Hence, to the realms of Night, dire Demon, hence!Thy chain of adamant can bind
That little world, the human mind,
And sink its noblest powers to impotence.
Wake the lion's loudest roar,
Clot his shaggy mane with gore,
With flashing fury bid his eye-balls shine;
Meek is his savage, sullen soul, to thine!
Thy touch, thy deadening touch has steeled the breast,
Whence, thro' her April-shower, soft Pity smiled;
Has closed the heart each godlike virtue blessed,
To all the silent pleadings of his child,
At thy command he plants the dagger deep,
At thy command exults, tho' Nature bids him weep!
I. 2.
When, with a frown that froze the peopled earth,Thou dartedst thy huge head from high,
Night waved her banners o'er the sky,
And, brooding, gave her shapeless shadows birth.
Rocking on the billowy air,
Ha! what withering phantoms glare!
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At each dead pause, what shrill-toned voices yell!
The sheeted spectre, rising from the tomb,
Points to the murderer's stab, and shudders by
In every grove is felt a heavier gloom,
That veils its genius from the vulgar eye:
The spirit of the water rides the storm,
And, thro' the mist, reveals the terrors of his form.
I. 3.
O'er solid seas, where Winter reigns,And holds each mountain-wave in chains,
The fur-clad savage, ere he guides his deer
By glistering star-light thro' the snow,
Breathes softly in her wondering ear
Each potent spell thou bad'st him know.
By thee inspired, on India's sands,
Full in the sun the Brahmin stands;
And, while the panting tigress hies
To quench her fever in the stream,
His spirit laughs in agonies,
Smit by the scorchings of the noontide beam
Mark who mounts the sacred pyre,
Blooming in her bridal vest:
She hurls the torch! she fans the fire!
To die is to be blest:
She clasps her lord to part no more,
And, sighing, sinks! but sinks to soar.
O'ershadowing Scotia's desert coast,
The Sisters sail in dusky state,
And, wrapt in clouds, in tempests tost,
Weave the airy web of Fate;
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Sees o'er her hills advance the long-drawn funeral train.
| The poetical works of Samuel Rogers | |