COMMENCEMENT OF A POEM ON DESPAIR.

Some to Aonian lyres of silver sound

With winning elegance attune their song,

Form'd to sink lightly on the soothed sense,

And charm the soul with softest harmony:

‘ Tis then that Hope with sanguine eye is seen

Roving through Fancy's gay futurity;

Her heart light dancing to the sounds of pleasure,

Pleasure of days to come. Memory, too, then

Comes with her sister, Melancholy sad,

Pensively musing on the scenes of youth,

Scenes never to return.

Such subjects merit poets used to raise

The attic verse harmonious; but for me

A deadlier theme demands my backward hand,

And bids me strike the strings of dissonance

With frantic energy.

‘ Tis wan Despair I sing, if sing I can

Of him before whose blast the voice of Song,

And Mirth, and Hope, and Happiness all fly,

Nor ever dare return. His notes are heard

At noon of night, where, on the coast of blood,

The lacerated son of Angola

Howls forth his sufferings to the moaning wind;

And, when the awful silence of the night

Strikes the chill death-dew to the murderer's heart,

He speaks in every conscience-prompted word

Half utter'd, half suppressed.

‘ Tis him I sing — Despair — terrific name,

Striking unsteadily the tremulous chord

Of timorous terror — discord in the sound:

For to a theme revolting as is this,

Dare not I woo the maids of harmony,

Who love to sit and catch the soothing sound

Of lyre Æolian, or the martial bugle,

Calling the hero to the field of glory,

And firing him with deeds of high emprise

And warlike triumph: but from scenes like mine

Shrink they affrighted, and detest the bard

Who dares to sound the hollow tones of horror.

Hence, then, soft maids,

And woo the silken zephyr in the bowers

By Heliconia's sleep-inviting stream:

For aid like yours I seek not;‘ tis for powers

Of darker hue to inspire a verse like mine!

‘ Tis work for wizards, sorcerers, and fiends.

Hither, ye furious imps of Acheron,

Nurslings of hell, and beings shunning light,

And all the myriads of the burning concave:

Souls of the damned:— Hither, oh! come and join

The infernal chorus.‘ Tis Despair I sing!

He, whose sole tooth inflicts a deadlier pang

Than all your tortures join'd. Sing, sing Despair!

Repeat the sound, and celebrate his power;

Unite shouts, screams, and agonizing shrieks,

Till the loud pæan ring through hell's high vault,

And the remotest spirits of the deep

Leap from the lake, and join the dreadful song.