SONNET To my venerable Friend, the President of the F ROM one unus'd in pomp of words to raise A coul-tly monument of empty praise, Where self, transpiring through the flimsy pile, Betrays the builder's ostentatious guile, Accept, oh West, these unaffected lays, Which genius claims and grateful justice pays. The wiles of envy, or the sordid train Of selfishness, has been the manly race Of honest fame; nor found the effort vain THE MAD LOVER At the Grave of his Mistress. STAY, gentle Stranger, softly tread! Oh, trouble not this hallow'd heap. Vile Envy says my Julia's dead; But Envy thus will never sleep. Ye creeping Zephyrs, hist you, pray, Nor press so hard yon wither'd leaves; For Julia sleeps beneath this clay Nay, feel it, how her bosom heaves! Oh, she was purer than the stream That saw the first created morn; Her words were like a sick man's dream That nerves with health a heart forlorn. And who their lot would hapless deem, Those lovely, speaking lips to view; That light between like rays that beam Through sister clouds of rosy hue? Yet these were to her fairer soul But, as yon op'ning clouds on high To glorious worlds that o'er them roll, The portals to a brighter sky. And shall the glutton worm defile This spotless tenement of love, That like a playful infant's smile Seem'd born of purest light above? And yet I saw the sable pall Dark-trailing o'er the broken ground The earth did on her coffin fall I heard the heavy, hollow sound. Avaunt, thou Fiend! nor tempt my brain With thoughts of madness brought from Hell! No wo like this of all her train Has Mem❜ry in her blackest cell. "Tis all a tale of fiendish art Thou com'st, my love, to prove it so! I'll press thy hand upon my heart It chills me like a hand of snow! Thine eyes are glaz'd, thy cheeks are pale, Thy lips are livid, and thy breath Too truly tells the dreadful tale Thou comest from the house of death! |