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145
Effusions,
Written on a Tomb among the Ruins of Sligo Abbey, September, 1799.
I
And must I; ghastly guest of this dark dwelling,Pale, senseless tenant must I come to this;
And shall this heart congeal, now warmly swelling
To woe's soft langour, rapture's melting bliss!
II
And must this pulse that beats to joy's gay measure,Throbbing with bloomy health, this pulse lie still;
And must each sense alive to guileless pleasure,
Torpid resist the touch of transport's thrill?
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III
And must each sensate feeling too decay,(Each feeling anguished by another's sorrow,)
This form that blushes youth and health to-day,
Lie cold and senseless thus, like thee, to-morrow?
IV
Terrific Death! to shun thy dreaded pow'r,Who would not brave existence' direst strife?
But that beyond thy dark shade's gloomy low'r,
Faith points her vista to eternal life!
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