Hail! awful madness hail! Thy realm extends, thy power prevail, Far as the voyager spreads his venturous sail; Hark; to the astonished ear "The gale conveys a strange tumultuous sound. They now approach, they now appear,Frenzy leads her chorus near, And demons dance around. Pride-ambition idly vain, Revenge and malice swell her train,-- And injured merit, with a downcast eye, Loud the shouts of madness rise, Rough as the wintry wave that roars In rage he grinds his teeth, and rends his streaming hair— No pleasing memory left-forgotten quite All former scenes of dear delight, Connubial love-parental joy— No sympathies like these his soul employ, Not so the love-born maid, By too much gentleness betrayed; Her gentle breast no angry passion fires, But slighted vows possess, and fainting, soft desires. She still retains her wonted flame; Incessant sighs, Dim haggard looks, and clouded o'er with care, Now sadly gay, of sorrows past she sings, "Tis he, the Momus of the flighty train,— The mimic monarch skips around; Big with conceit of dignity he smiles, And plots his frolics quaint, and unsuspected wiles. Laughter was there-but mark that groan, "Give the knife, demons, or the poison'd bowl, Who's this wretch, with horror wild? 'Tis Devotion's ruined child— Sunk in the emphasis of grief Nor can he feel, nor dares he ask relief. Thou, fair Religion! wast design'd, To warm and cheer the human mind, To point, where sits in love arrayed, First shown by thee, thus glow'd the gracious scene, Bade doubts to rise, and tears to flow, And spread deep shades our view and heaven between. Drawn by her pencil, the Creator stands, Hope, at the frown aghast, yet lingering, flies, And, dashed on terror's rocks, faith's best dependence lies. But ah! too thick they crowd-too close they throngObjects of pity and affright! Spare further the descriptive song Nature shudders at the sight Protract not, curious ears, the mournful tale, CXLI. FUNERAL OF ARVALAN. Midnight, and yet no eye -Southey. Through all the Imperial city closed in sleep! With light that seems to kindle the red sky, All, all abroad to gaze; Clustered with women, who throw back their veils To view the funeral pomp which passes by, As if the mournful rite Were but to them a scene of joyance and delight. Vainly ye blessed twinklers of the night, Quench'd in the unnatural light which might out-stare Pourest, O moon, an ineffectual ray! Upon the midnight air, Blotting the lights of heaven With one portentous glare. Behold the fragrant smoke in many a fold, A dark and waving canopy. Hark! 'tis the funeral trumpet's breath! The song of praise is drown'd, Amid that deafening sound; You hear no more the trumpet's tone, But rising over all in one acclaim Arvalan! Arvalan! Arvalan! Arvalan! Ten times ten thousand voices in one shout The death-procession moves along, Chaunting the funeral song, And now at once they shout, With quick rebound of sound, The universal multitude reply. A glow is on his face-a lively red: Which o'er his cheek the reddening shade hath shed, But the motion comes from the bearer's tread, Nor calling the dead name; Silent and lost in thought he moves along. For Nature in his pride hath dealt the blow, O sight of grief! the wives of Arvalan, Each like an eastern queen, With symphony, and dance, and song, Their kindred and their friends come on. |