Rise on the night-rolling breath of As he lists to the fearful lay O father! thy voice seems to strike When the death-knell struck on his ear. VIII And in fervent pray'r he knelt on the ground, Till the abbey bell struck One: His feverish blood ran chill at the sound: A voice hollow and horrible murmur'd around "The term of thy penance is done!" IX Grew dark the night; The moonbeam bright Wax'd faint on the mountain high; And, from the black hill, Went a voice cold and still,"Monk! thou art free to die." X Then he rose on his feet, And his heart loud did beat, The Monk call'd on God his soul to save, And, in horror, sank on the ground. XIV Then despair nerv'd his arm And he burst Rosa's coffin asunder. And louder peal'd the thunder. XV And laugh'd, in joy, the fiendish throng, Mix'd with ghosts of the mouldering dead: And their grisly wings, as they floated along, Whistled in murmurs dread. XVI And his limbs they were palsied with And her skeleton form the dead Nun dread; Whilst the grave's clammy dew O'er his pale forehead grew; rear'd Which dripp'd with the chill dew of hell. And he shudder'd to sleep with the In her half-eaten eyeballs two pale dead. XI And the wild midnight storm As he search'd for the new-made tomb. XII And forms, dark and high, Half-seen shadows did fall, XIII And the storm-fiend's wild rave O'er the new-made grave, And dread shadows, linger around. No cloud along the spangled air, Is borne upon the evening breeze; How solemn is the scene! how fair The moonbeams rest upon the trees! III Yon dark gray turret glimmers white, IV But not alone on Irvyne's tower, As enanguish'd he turns from the laugh of the scorner, And drops, to perfection's remembrance, a tear; When floods of despair down his pale cheek are streaming, When no blissful hope on his bosom is beaming, Or, if lull'd for awhile, soon he starts from his dreaming, And finds torn the soft ties to affection so dear. II Ah! when shall day dawn on the night of the grave, Or summer succeed to the winter of death? Rest awhile, hapless victim, and Heaven will save The spirit, that faded away with the breath. Eternity points in its amaranth bower, Where no clouds of fate o'er the sweet prospect lower, The silver moonbeam pours her ray; Unspeakable pleasure, of goodness the It gleams upon the ivied bower, It dances in the cascade's spray. V "Ah! why do dark'ning shades conceal Why may not human minds unveil VI "The keenness of the world hath torn The heart which opens to its blast; Despis'd, neglected, and forlorn, Sinks the wretch in death at last." V.-BEREAVEMENT I dower, How stern are the woes of the desolate And I hear, as she wraps round her II truding them on the public notice. The High swell'd in her bosom the throb of first I found with no title, and have left it affection, As lightly her form bounded over the lea, And arose in her mind every dear recollection; "I come, dearest Henry, and wait but for thee." How sad, when dear hope every sorrow is soothing, When sympathy's swell the soft bosom is moving, And the mind the mild joys of affection is proving, SO. It is intimately connected with the dearest interests of universal happiness; and much as we may deplore the fatal and enthusiastic tendency which the ideas of this poor female had acquired, we cannot fail to pay the tribute of unequivocal regret to the departed memory of genius, which, had it been rightly organised, would have made that intellect, which has since become the victim of frenzy and despair, a most brilliant ornament to society. In case the sale of these Fragments evinces that the public have any curiosity Is the stern voice of fate that bids collection of my unfortunate Aunt's poems, to be presented with a more copious happiness flee! I have other papers in my possession which shall, in that case, be subjected to their notice. It may be supposed they require much arrangement; but I send the following to the press in the same state in which they came into my posJ. F. session. POSTHUMOUS FRAGMENTS AMBITION, power, and avarice, now have hurl'd Death, fate, and ruin, on a bleeding world. See! on yon heath what countless victims lie, Hark! what loud shrieks ascend thro' yonder sky; Tell then the cause, 'tis sure the avenger's rage Has swept these myriads from life's crowded stage: Hark to that groan, an anguish'd hero He shudders in death's latest agonies; "Oh God! my wife, my children— THE energy and native genius of these Fragments must be the only apology For which the Editor can make for thus in whose support this fainting frame lies low; For whose support in distant lands I│Ah! when will come the sacred fated For passion's voice has dull'd their Will stretch him fearless by his foemen's side? listless ear. To thee, then, mighty God, I lift my Ah! when will come the time, when moan, o'er the plain reign? Thou wilt not scorn a suppliant's No more shall death and desolation anguish'd groan. Oh! now I die but still is death's When will the sun smile on the bloodfierce painless field, God hears my prayer-we meet, we And the stern warrior's arm the sickle meet again.' wield? He spake, reclin'd him on death's Not whilst some King, in cold ambition's bloody bed, And with a parting groan his spirit fled. dreams, Plans for the field of death his plodding schemes; Not whilst for private pique the public fall, For you how many a mother weeps her | And one frail mortal's mandate governs all. son, Snatch'd from life's course ere half his Swell'd with command and mad with race was run! dizzying sway; For you how many a widow drops a tear, In silent anguish, on her husband's bier ! "Is it then thine, Almighty Power," she cries, Who sees unmov'd his myriads fade away. Careless who lives or dies-so that he gains Some trivial point for which he took the pains. "Whence tears of endless sorrow dim What then are Kings?—I see the these eyes? Is this the system which thy powerful sway, Which else in shapeless chaos sleeping lay, Form'd and approv'd?-it cannot be but oh! Forgive me Heaven, my brain is warp'd by woe." 'Tis not he never bade the war-note swell, trembling crowd, I hear their fulsome clamours echoed loud; Their stern oppressor pleas'd appears awhile, But April's sunshine is a Monarch's smile Kings are but dust-the last eventful day Will level all and make them lose their sway; Will dash the sceptre from the Monarch's hand, He never triumph'd in the work of hell- |