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FRAGMENT: SUPPOSED TO BE AN EPITHALAMIUM OF FRANCIS RAVAILLAC AND CHARLOTTE CORDAY.
’Tis midnight now—athwart the murky air,
Dank lurid meteors shoot a livid gleam;
From the dark storm-clouds flashes a fearful glare,
It shows the bending oak, the roaring stream.
I pondered on the woes of lost mankind, _5
I pondered on the ceaseless rage of Kings;
My rapt soul dwelt upon the ties that bind
The mazy volume of commingling things,
When fell and wild misrule to man stern sorrow brings.
I heard a yell—it was not the knell, _10
When the blasts on the wild lake sleep,
That floats on the pause of the summer gale’s swell,
O’er the breast of the waveless deep.
I thought it had been death’s accents cold
That bade me recline on the shore; _15
I laid mine hot head on the surge-beaten mould,
And thought to breathe no more.
But a heavenly sleep
That did suddenly steep
In balm my bosom’s pain, _20
Pervaded my soul,
And free from control,
Did mine intellect range again.
Methought enthroned upon a silvery cloud,
Which floated mid a strange and brilliant light; _25
My form upborne by viewless aether rode,
And spurned the lessening realms of earthly night.
What heavenly notes burst on my ravished ears,
What beauteous spirits met my dazzled eye!
Hark! louder swells the music of the spheres, _30
More clear the forms of speechless bliss float by,
And heavenly gestures suit aethereal melody.
But fairer than the spirits of the air,
More graceful than the Sylph of symmetry,
Than the enthusiast’s fancied love more fair, _35
Were the bright forms that swept the azure sky.
Enthroned in roseate light, a heavenly band
Strewed flowers of bliss that never fade away;
They welcome virtue to its native land,
And songs of triumph greet the joyous day _40
When endless bliss the woes of fleeting life repay.
Congenial minds will seek their kindred soul,
E’en though the tide of time has rolled between;
They mock weak matter’s impotent control,
And seek of endless life the eternal scene. _45
At death’s vain summons THIS will never die,
In Nature’s chaos THIS will not decay—
These are the bands which closely, warmly, tie
Thy soul, O Charlotte, ‘yond this chain of clay,
To him who thine must be till time shall fade away. _50