Poetic Lucubrations Containing The Misanthrope and Other Effusions. By T. Gordon Hake |
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| XVII. | XVII. |
 | Poetic Lucubrations |  |
54
XVII.
At this dread hour, th' infernal crew,
Delight to sip the war-field dew,
T' inhale the tainted air:
To spread before men's troubled sight,
The varying horrors of the night,
And mock their mutter'd pray'r!
Delight to sip the war-field dew,
T' inhale the tainted air:
To spread before men's troubled sight,
The varying horrors of the night,
And mock their mutter'd pray'r!
Such were the tints of gloomy hue,
That fast inventing fancy drew
On a youthful warrior's mind,
In his darken'd tent reclin'd.
And as their horrors wildly roll,
O'er all his superstitious soul,
A fitful, and unwilling dread,
By ev'ry startled sense is fed.
He hears low undefined sounds,
Now a shaft beside him bounds,
Monstrous forms before him flit,
And slimy toads beside him sit.
In vain he woos oblivious sleep,
The fev'rish blood doth thickly creep:
Half rising from his leafy bed,
He grasps his sword in breathless dread.
Throws his quiv'ring eye around,
Then sinks again: again some sound
Bursts on his wakeful ear: again
He feels the same mysterious pain.
But no, all's silent, all is gloom,
Save at the door of the canvas room:
“But sure some giant form is there,
By heav'n! I see its sockets glare!
That sound, hark! yet, 'tis but the rain,
I hear soft dropping from the tree.
But God! that is a form I see!
Speak! or never breathe again!
What art thou, I charge thee tell,
Or man, or art thou fiend of hell?”
“Henry,” a hollow murmur fell!
Mad from his bed the warrior sprung,
Against his breast his falchion rung,
Fiercely at the shade he flew,
Quickly in his grasping hand
The phantom stood, what meets his view,
Why thus like a statue stand?
Whose round polish'd arm is this?
Whose the lip, imprints the kiss?
Who the warm embrace bestows?
Is this breast an armed foe's?
Is the lip on which he hangs,
Th'icy adder's pois'nous fangs?
Is the cheek which meets his own,
A skeleton's cold, fleshless bone?
Is the waist he closely presses,
Are the glossy, circling tresses,
Are the gentle tones he hears,
Such as raise the deadliest fears?
Forgotten are his late alarms,
For Juliana fills his arms!
That fast inventing fancy drew
On a youthful warrior's mind,
In his darken'd tent reclin'd.
And as their horrors wildly roll,
O'er all his superstitious soul,
55
By ev'ry startled sense is fed.
He hears low undefined sounds,
Now a shaft beside him bounds,
Monstrous forms before him flit,
And slimy toads beside him sit.
In vain he woos oblivious sleep,
The fev'rish blood doth thickly creep:
Half rising from his leafy bed,
He grasps his sword in breathless dread.
Throws his quiv'ring eye around,
Then sinks again: again some sound
Bursts on his wakeful ear: again
He feels the same mysterious pain.
56
Save at the door of the canvas room:
“But sure some giant form is there,
By heav'n! I see its sockets glare!
That sound, hark! yet, 'tis but the rain,
I hear soft dropping from the tree.
But God! that is a form I see!
Speak! or never breathe again!
What art thou, I charge thee tell,
Or man, or art thou fiend of hell?”
“Henry,” a hollow murmur fell!
Mad from his bed the warrior sprung,
Against his breast his falchion rung,
57
Quickly in his grasping hand
The phantom stood, what meets his view,
Why thus like a statue stand?
Whose round polish'd arm is this?
Whose the lip, imprints the kiss?
Who the warm embrace bestows?
Is this breast an armed foe's?
Is the lip on which he hangs,
Th'icy adder's pois'nous fangs?
Is the cheek which meets his own,
A skeleton's cold, fleshless bone?
58
Are the glossy, circling tresses,
Are the gentle tones he hears,
Such as raise the deadliest fears?
Forgotten are his late alarms,
For Juliana fills his arms!
| Poetic Lucubrations | |