Oh, Ignorance! Thou art fallen man's best friend! With thee he speeds In frigid apathy along his way. And never does the tear of agony Burn down his scorching cheek; or the keen steel Of wounded feeling penetrate his breast. E'en now, as leaning on this fragrant bank, I taste of all the keener happiness Which sense refined affords--E'en now my heart Would fain induce me to forsake the world, Throw off these garments, and in shepherd's weeds, With a small flock, and short suspended reed, To sojourn in the woodland.--Then my thought Draws such gay pictures of ideal bliss, That I could almost err in reason's spite, And trespass on my judgment. Such is life: The distant prospect always seems more fair, And when attain'd, another still succeeds, Far fairer than before,--yet compass'd round With the same dangers, and the same dismay. And we poor pilgrims in this dreary maze, Still discontented, chase the fairy form Of unsubstantial Happiness, to find, When life itself is sinking in the strife, 'Tis but an airy bubble and a cheat. COMMENCEMENT OF A POEM ON DESPAIR. Some to Aonian lyres of silver sound With winning elegance attune their song, Form'd to sink lightly on the soothed sense, And charm the soul with softest harmony: 'Tis then that Hope with sanguine eye is seen Roving through Fancy's gay futurity; Her heart light dancing to the sounds of pleasure, Pleasure of days to come. Memory, too, then Comes with her sister, Melancholy sad, Pensively musing on the scenes of youth, Scenes never to return.[1] Such subjects merit poets used to raise The attic verse harmonious; but for me A deadlier theme demands my backward hand, And bids me strike the strings of dissonance With frantic energy. 'Tis wan Despair I sing, if sing I can Of him before whose blast the voice of Song, And Mirth, and Hope, and Happiness all fly, Nor ever dare return. His notes are heard At noon of night, where, on the coast of blood, The lacerated son of Angola Howls forth his sufferings to the moaning wind; And, when the awful silence of the night Strikes the chill death-dew to the murderer's heart, He speaks in every conscience-prompted word Half utter'd, half suppressed. 'Tis him I sing--Despair--terrific name, Striking unsteadily the tremulous chord Of timorous terror--discord in the sound: For to a theme revolting as is this, Dare not I woo the maids of harmony, Who love to sit and catch the soothing sound Of lyre Æolian, or the martial bugle, Calling the hero to the field of glory, And firing him with deeds of high emprise And warlike triumph: but from scenes like mine Shrink they affrighted, and detest the bard Who dares to sound the hollow tones of horror. Hence, then, soft maids, And woo the silken zephyr in the bowers By Heliconia's sleep-inviting stream: For aid like yours I seek not; 'tis for powers Of darker hue to inspire a verse like mine! 'Tis work for wizards, sorcerers, and fiends.