Poor Shade! He seemed ever to have a presentiment of his coming and early doom; and his prophetic vision often pierced the future, in lines akin to the solemn stanzas which close his beautiful 'Night Thoughts:'
'When high in heaven the moon careers,
She lights the fountain of young tears;
Her ray plays on the fevered brow;
Plays on the cheek now bright no more—
Plays on the withered almond bough,
Which once the man of sorrow wore!
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'Behold this elm on which I lean,
Meet emblem of my cruel fate;
But yestermorn, its leaves were green—
Now it lies low and desolate!
The dew which bathes each faded leaf,
Doth also bathe my brow of grief.
Alas! the dews of death too soon
Will gather o'er my dreamless sleep;
And thou wilt beam, O pensive moon,
Where love should mourn, and friends should weep!'
But he was translated to an early paradise, by the kind fiat of a benevolent God. Pure in heart, fresh and warm in his affections, he loved to live, because he lived to love; and he is now in that better country,
'Where light doth glance on many a crown,
From suns that never more go down.'
He had a languid but not unpleasing melancholy about his life, which entered into his verse, and moaned from every vibration of his excelling lyre. How beautiful—how touching—how mournful, are these bodings in his song:
'Give not to me the wreath of green—
The blooming vase of flowers;
They breathe of joy that once hath been—
Of gone and faded hours.
I cannot love the rose; though rich,
Its beauty will not last;
Give me, oh! give the bloom, o'er which
The early blight hath passed:
The yellow buds—give them to rest
On my cold brow and joyless breast,
Where life is failing fast.
'Take far from me the wine-cup bright,
In hours of revelry;
It suits glad brows, and bosoms light—
It is not meet for me;
Oh! I can pledge the heart no more,
I pledged in days gone by;
Sorrow hath touch'd my bosom's core,
And I am left to die:
Give me to drink of Lethe's wave—
Give me the lone and silent grave,
O'er which the night-winds sigh!
'Wake not, upon my tuneless ear,
Soft music's stealing strain:
It cannot soothe, it cannot cheer,
This anguish'd heart again:
But place th' æolian harp upon
The tomb of her I love;
There, when heaven shrouds the dying sun,
My weary steps will rove;
As o'er its chords night pours its breath,
To list the serenade of death,
Her silent bourne above!
'Give me to seek that lonely tomb,
Where sleeps the sainted dead.
Now the pale night-fall throws its gloom
Upon her narrow bed;
There, while the winds which sweep along
O'er the harp-strings are driven,
And the funereal soul of song
Upon the air is given,
Oh! let my faint and parting breath
Be mingled with that song of death,
And flee with it to heaven!'