MELANCHOLIA.

An enigmatic picture! Yet, indeed,

In current Gallic light not hard to read.

Woman, with angel-wings, and mournful face,

What are the plans those listless fingers trace?

What are the visions those fixed eyes survey?

The War-dog fierce lies couchant in your way.

The instruments of Art are scattered round.

Mistress of charm in form, in tint, in sound,

Of engineering might, mechanic skill,

That checks your genius, and what thwarts your will?

Winged Wit is at your side, your cherished guest,

Who quits you never on an alien quest.

But what that mystic prism shadows forth

Hath menace which auxiliar from the North

May scarce avert. The scales of Justice tilt

Something askew. The curse of high-placed guilt

Is on you, if the warning tocsin's knell,

Clanging forth fiercely, hath not force to tell

The hearer that Fate's hourglass fast runs out.

That spectral Comet flames, beset about

With miasmatic mist, and lurid fume,

Conquering Corruption threatens hideous doom.

Yet, yet the Bow of Promise gleams above,

Herald of Hope to her whom all men mark and love!