Hither, ye furious imps of Acheron, Nurslings of hell, and beings shunning light, And all the myriads of the burning concave: Souls of the damned:--Hither, oh! come and join The infernal chorus. 'Tis Despair I sing! He, whose sole tooth inflicts a deadlier pang Than all your tortures join'd. Sing, sing Despair! Repeat the sound, and celebrate his power; Unite shouts, screams, and agonizing shrieks, Till the loud pæan ring through hell's high vault, And the remotest spirits of the deep Leap from the lake, and join the dreadful song. Footnotes: [1] Alluding to the two pleasing poems, the Pleasures of Hope and of Memory. THE EVE OF DEATH. IRREGULAR. Silence of death--portentous calm, Those airy forms that yonder fly Denote that your void foreruns a storm, That the hour of fate is nigh. I see, I see, on the dim mist borne, The Spirit of battles rear his crest! I see, I see, that ere the morn, His spear will forsake its hated rest, And the widow'd wife of Larrendill will beat her naked breast. O'er the smooth bosom of the sullen deep, No softly ruffling zephyrs fly; But nature sleeps a deathless sleep, For the hour of battle is nigh. Not a loose leaf waves on the dusky oak, But a creeping stillness reigns around; Except when the raven, with ominous croak, On the ear does unwelcomely sound. I know, I know what this silence means; I know what the raven saith-- Strike, oh, ye bards! the melancholy harp, For this is the eve of death. Behold, how along the twilight air The shades of our fathers glide! There Morven fled, with the blood-drench'd hair, And Colma with gray side. No gale around its coolness flings, Yet sadly sigh the gloomy trees; And hark! how the harp's unvisited strings Sound sweet, as if swept by a whispering breeze! 'Tis done! the sun he has set in blood! He will never set more to the brave; Let us pour to the hero the dirge of death, For to-morrow he hies to the grave. THANATOS. Oh! who would cherish life, And cling unto this heavy clog of clay, Love this rude world of strife, Where glooms and tempests cloud the fairest day; And where, 'neath outward smiles, Conceal'd the snake lies feeding on its prey, Where pitfalls lie in every flowery way, And sirens lure the wanderer to their wiles! Hateful it is to me, Its riotous railings and revengeful strife; I'm tired with all its screams and brutal shouts Dinning the ear;--away--away with life! And welcome, oh! thou silent maid, Who in some foggy vault art laid,