And waiting thus his triumph to obtain, Enjoying it, though but in death to hold, Flies his Creator’s bosom to regain. O, sweet illusion! who has had the power To save himself from thee, who was not born Than the cold marble, or the rough trunk lower? With ardour I embrace, and wait thee lorn. Yet of my Muse perchance some happier strains Will me survive, and my sepulchral stone Will not be left to tell of me alone! Perhaps my name, which rancour now detains Proscribed, will yet resound o’er Cuba’s plains, On the swift trumpet of enduring fame! Correggio, when he saw his canvas flame With life, “a painter,” it was his to cry, “I also am!”--A poet too am I. ODE TO NIGHT. Night reigns; in silence deep around Dreams whirl through empty space; Clothing with her pure light the ground, The moon shows bright her face: Soft hour of peace; without a trace Of Man, where rise these heights uphurl’d, I sit abandon’d of the world. How Nature’s quietude august Delights the feeling mind, That heeds her voice, and learns to trust Its joys with her to find! Sweet silence! here I rest reclined, With but the river’s murmurings heard, Or leaves by gentle breezes stirr’d. Now its repose on languid wings, Its freshness Night supplies; To shaded heaven which faithful clings, And blaze of daylight flies: Unseen by that, mysterious lies On mount and plain, to please though sad, Still beauteous ev’n in horrors clad. How is the ecstatic soul impress’d With melancholy thought! The lovely picture here possess’d Sublime with sadness fraught! How more its music to be sought, And peace, than all that may entrance The echoes of the noisy dance. Around the proud saloon reflect Each face the mirrors there; With diamonds, pearls, and gold bedeck’d, Light dance the gentle fair; And with their witching grace and air, O’er thousand lovers holding sway, Their vows and plaudits bear away. Lovely is that! I one day too, When childhood scarce above, Through balls and banquets would pursue The object of my love. And from the young beloved I strove, As magic treasure, to obtain A passing look, or smile to gain. But now by cares subdued, and bound By languor and disease, Than gilded halls, these plains around Me more the night hours please: To the gay dance preferring these, The calm asylum they supply, To meditate beneath this sky. O! ever shine on me the stars, In a clear heaven as now! And as my Maker that avers, There let me turn my brow. O! God of heaven, to Thee I bow! And raise by night my humble strain, The voice of my consuming pain.