PICTURE II.

Who dares attempt this gloomy grove

Where never shepherd dream'd of love,

And birds of night are only found,

And poisonous weeds bestrew the ground:

Hence, stranger, take some other road,

Nor dare prophane my dark abode;

The winds are high, the moon is low —

Would you enter?— no, no, no:—

Sorceress of mighty power!

Hither at the midnight hour

Over hill and dale I've come,

Leaving ease and sleep at home:

With daring aims my bosom glows;

Long a stranger to repose,

I have come to learn from you

Whether phantoms I pursue,

Or if, as reason would persuade,

New worlds are on the ocean laid —

Tell me, wonder-working maid,

Tell me, dire inchantress, tell,

Mistress of the magic spell!

The staring owl her note has sung;

With gaping snakes my cave is hung;

Of maiden hair my bed is made,

Two winding sheets above it laid;

With bones of men my shelves are pil'd,

And toads are for my supper boil'd;

Three ghosts attend to fill my cup,

And four to serve my pottage up;

The crow is waiting to say grace:—

Wouldst thou in such a dismal place

The secrets of thy fortune trace?

Though death and all his dreary crew

Were to be open'd on my view,

I would not from this threshold fly

‘ Till you had made a full reply.

Open wide this iron gate,

I must read the book of fate:

Tell me, if beyond the main

Islands are reserv'd for Spain;

Tell me, if beyond the sea

Worlds are to be found by me:

Bid your spirits disappear,

Phantoms of delusive fear,

These are visions I despise,

Shadows and uncertainties.

Must I, then, yield to your request!

Columbus, why disturb my rest!—

For this the ungrateful shall combine,

And hard misfortune shall be thine;—

For this the base reward remains

Of cold neglect and galling chains!

In a poor solitude forgot,

Reproach and want shall be the lot

Of him that gives new worlds to Spain,

And westward spreads her golden reign.

Before you came to vex my bower

I slept away the evening hour,

Or watch'd the rising of the moon,

With hissing vipers keeping tune,

Or galloping along the glade

Took pleasure in the lunar shade,

And gather'd herbs, or made a prize

Of horses’ tails and adders’ eyes:

Now open flies the iron gate,

Advance, and read the book of fate!

On thy design what woes attend!

The nations at the ocean's end,

No longer destin'd to be free,

Shall owe distress and death to thee!

The seats of innocence and love

Shall soon the scenes of horror prove:

But why disturb these Indian climes,

The pictures of more happy times!

Has avarice, with unfeeling breast,

Has cruelty thy soul possess'd?

May ruin on thy boldness wait!—

Advance, and read the book of fate.

When vulture, fed but once a week,

And ravens three together shriek,

And skeleton for vengeance cries,

Then shall the fatal curtain rise!

Two lamps in yonder vaulted room,

Suspended o'er a brazen tomb,

Shall lend their glimmerings, as you pass,

To find your fortune in that glass

Whose wondrous virtue is, to show

Whate'er the inquirer wants to know.