For the Southern Literary Messenger.
TO DESPAIR.
| Hail to thy tranquil and secure abode, The gloomy refuge of the tortured breast; Where anxious Care resigns his weary load; And wasted Sorrow sighs herself to rest. No treacherous Hope here flatters and deceives, No shortlived Rapture cheats the ravished sense; No airy dreams delirious Fancy weaves; Hope—Rapture—Fancy—all are banished hence. Here Fear, with startling cry, no more appals, For he who knows the worst no harm can dread: And keen affliction's dart as harmless falls, As the vain storm that pelts the senseless dead. Here no fierce Passions agitate the breast, But Rage is quelled, and Hate forgets his foe: Pride stoops; Ambition vails his haughty crest; And Envy covets nought that kings bestow. But Love still feeds the never dying flame, Whose cold pale light scarce breaks the settled gloom, Like the Sepulchral lamp, whose livid gleam Watches above the Silence of the Tomb. That light no more the dazzled sense beguiles; That flame no more the frozen bosom warms; Yet dear, as when, all bright in rosy smiles, It led my faithful Laura to my arms. But she is lost; and now this calm abode Affords a refuge to my weary breast; And Care, at length resigns his weary load; And wasted Sorrow sighs herself to rest. |
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
My grandfather who had died at the age of eighty-six, was the first object I examined; his snowy locks had become, through the influence of the leaden mantle which enveloped him, of a blood color, &c. &c.—Prince Puckler Muskau's visit to the vault of his ancestors.
| "Have ye torn away the fun'ral pall?— Did ye strip each corpse to sight?— Then leave me, in my ancestral hall, I visit the dead to-night—" The clock struck twelve and I took the lamp With a solemn step and slow— Down—down I went, and my echoing tramp Rang deep in the vault below. I saw the dust of centuries round; And I felt my courage droop;— My eyes were rivetted—strained—spell-bound— By three of that awful group. I stood in the charnel house of those, Whose blood in my veins now ran; My current of life seem'd nearly froze As I strove the scene to scan. An aged man with his "gory locks" And sightless sockets was there,— And staring seem'd from his leaden box With a stern—reproachful air. Wrapp'd in embroider'd cloth of gold, Lay a noble knight and tall— And I knew at once the warrior bold, Who hung in my castle hall. At head of his Cuirassiers,—there he Was charging the flying Swede; But here—oh pitiful sight to see! The victor lay low indeed. In a gorgeous robe of silk, here lay The finest of female forms; I did but touch her—she pass'd away— My hand was alive with worms. I sunk on my knees in fervent prayer; Tears fell—and my bosom thaw'd; Horror gave place to the feeling, there Of trust in the mighty God. I rose without or shudder or dread, And I kiss'd that aged face; I took a lock from the sightless head, And calmly quitted the place. But never again till I drink the cup Of death—will I enter there— The power of prayer, might bear me up— But God, he hath said—forbear!!! |