Ode to Death

Thou, whose remorseless rage, Nor vows, nor tears assuage, TRIUMPHANT DEATH!—to thee I raise The bursting notes of dauntless praise!— Methinks on yonder murky cloud Thou sit'st, in majesty severe! Thy regal robe a ghastly shroud! Thy right arm lifts th' insatiate spear! Such was thy glance, when, erst as from the plain, Where INDUS rolls his burning sand, Young AMMON led the victor train, In glowing lust of fierce command: As vain he cried with thund'ring voice, "The World is mine, rejoice, rejoice, "The World I've won!" Thou gav'st the withering nod, Thy FIAT smote his heart,—he sunk,—a senseless clod!

"And art thou great?"—Mankind replies With sad assent of mingling sighs! Sighs, that swell the biting gales Which sweep o'er LAPLAND's frozen vales! And the red TROPICS' whirlwind heat Is with the sad assent replete! How fierce yon Tyrant's plumy crest! A blaze of gold illumes his breast, In pomp of threat'ning pow'r elate, He madly dares to spurn at Fate! But—when Night, with shadowy robe, Hangs upon the darken'd globe, In his chamber,—sad,—alone, By starts, he pours the fearful groan! From flatt'ring crowds retir'd—he bows the knee, And mutters forth a pray'r—because he THINKS OF THEE.

GAYLY smiles the NUPTIAL BOW'R, Bedeck'd with many an od'rous flow'r! While the spousal pair advance, Mixing oft the melting gaze, In fondest ecstacy of praise. Ah! short delusive trance! What tho' the festival be there;— The rapt Bard's warblings fill the air; And joy and harmony combine! TOUCH BUT THY TALISMAN, and ALL IS THINE! Th' insensate lovers fix in icy fold, And on his throbbing lyre, the Minstrel's hand is cold!

'Tis THOU canst quench the Eagle's sight That stems the cataract of light! Forbid the vernal buds to blow— Bend th' obedient forest low— And tame the monsters of the main! Such is thy potent reign! O'er earth, and air, and sea! Yet, art thou still DISDAIN'D BY ME. And, I have reason for my scorn;— Do I not hate the rising morn! The garish noon; the eve serene; The fresh'ning breeze; the sportive green; The painted pleasures' throng'd resort; And all the splendors of the court! And has not SORROW chose to dwell Within my hot heart's central cell; And are not Hope's weak visions o'er, Can Love, or Rapture reach me more? Then tho' I scorn thy stroke—I call thee FRIEND, For in thy calm embrace, my weary woes shall end.