Along the pile with quick and hurried pace,
With vacant stare, and pale averted face,
Methinks I see some lovely damsel tread
The ruin'd mass and mark the heaps of dead;
Each half-choked avenue she vainly tries,
O'er yon dismantled dome, your arch'd roof flies,
Hastes to the lofty chapel's shatter'd walls,
On her lost lover, her Alonzo calls;
Lists for a moment:-all is mute and still!
Save the shrill echo from the neighboring hill.
She calls again!--no answering voice she hears,
Beats her white breast, and seeks in vain for tears:
Reckless she roams, and raves with frantic pain,
Clasps her soft hands, and binds her burning brain..
Hope for a moment with illusive wile,
Points the poor mourner to yon steepy pile;
""Tis he" the wretched girl delerious cries
And then to clasp the airy phantom tries;
She can no more;-and with one pitious shriek
Nature resigns!-her aching heartstrings break.
How oft, by fortune's dangerous gifts beguiled,
We plough the ocean, pierce the desert wild,
Sad was his fate in that tremendous hour,
Who left his friends, and left his native shore,
Whelm'd in the common lot-with strangers dies,
Where no dear hand might close his friendless eyes.
No more Caraccas, shall thy city raise
The lofty promise of its former days;
O'er all thy domes, and o'er this wretched race,
With ivy bound, stern ruin waves his mace.
Burning of the Richmond Theatre.
THE curtain rose !-attention fix'd her eyes,
And saw the varied scenery arise;
'The generous plaudit cheer'd the actor's heart,
And louldly spoke he well perform'd his part.
The play went off:-the closing curtain fell,
Unbroke the charm, unbroke the fatal spell.
What though the cup of pleasure sparkling flows,
Its soothing sweets are dash'd with cruel woes !
See o'er the scenes, the flaming deluge rage,
While flakes of fire bestrew the tragic stage.
Confusion reigns!-horror and wild affright!-
Throngs press on throngs and swell the dismal sight:
In vain they fly, in vain, alas! retire;
More swiftly sweep relentless floods of fire;
Near and more near the glowing volumes press,
Curl o'er the vault and pierce the deep recess;
The narrow entry choked, advance denies,
Block'd up by crowds, and fill'd with shrieks and cries..
They tug, they strive, the compact body moves,
But stands unbroke and every effort braves.
The heated smoke in suffocating clouds
Rolls on and spreads its dense and sable shrouds;
Despair nerves every arm, all struggling strive
The close wedged column of their friends to rive.
The element completes the work of death,
Enters each nook with calorific breath;
On the parch'd tongue expires the piercing scream,
Each gushing mouth inhales the noxious stream.
One effort more :-the fasten'd crowd divides,
To different points roll on the desperate tides,
That tumbles headlong down the winding stair,
By torment stung and goaded by despair.
Many, alas! a cruel death there meet,
Thrust down by friends, and trampled by their feet;
Dismay drives on! nor heeds the sufferer's moan,
The piteous shriek, and agonizing groan;
All cling to life, cool judgement yields its sway,
While fear and phrenzy shout away, away!
This to the window bends its awful flight,..
And madly plunges from the dizzy height.
Few, few escaped, who from that window fell,
The dreadful story of the night to tell.
The veil of silence, and the tears that flow,
More fitly paint the horrid scene of woe.
Wind then, my muse! regret's sad cypress wreath
Around the victims of remorseless death.
TIME! sweeps his pinions, speeds his rapid course,
Crushes the weak, and breaks the giant's force;
Raises his fateful glass with threatening hand,
And meets our fleeting moments with his sand.
Crowns, sceptres, thrones, the chieftain's dazzling crest,
Fall at his beck and bow to his behest:
His dread command alike extends to all,
Builds up one nation, bids another fall;
Yet there are moments wrested from his flight,
Bright moments flashing through oblivion's night.
Oft has the pen its magic power essay'd,
The canvas oft has lofty worth portray'd;
With glorious deeds historic annals teem,
Where truth's clear mirror casts its sacred beam.
Though gloomy rolls the dark and sullen wave,
The swans of verse preserve the just and brave;
Still give some tablet to immortal fame,
Stampt with the sage's or the hero's name,
When despot-pomp, in purple robes array'd,
Before the test of years to come shall fade;
When the stern leader wakes no more the war,
And time's sharp scythe shall cleave the sword and spear, pen will live; immortal and sublime, Triumphant victor of subjected time.
The Grave of the Year..
Lines written for the 31st of December.
BE compos'd ev'ry toil and each turbulent motion,
That encircles the heart in life's treacherous snares;
And the hour that invites to the calm of devotion,
Undisturb'd by regrets-unencumber'd with cares.
How cheerless the late blooming face of creation!
Weary Time seems to pause in his rapid career,
And fatigu'd with the work of his own desolation,
Looks behind with a smile-on the grave of the year.
Hark! the wind whistles rudely-the shadows are closing,
That enwrap his broad path in the mantle of night;
While pleasure's gay sons are in quiet reposing,
Undismay'd at the wrecks that have number'd his flight.
From you temple where fashion's bright tapers are lighted,
Her vot❜ries in crowds, deck'd with garlands appear;
And (as yet their warm hopes by no spectres affrighted)
Assemble to dance-round the grave of the year.
Oh I hate the stale cup which the idlers have tasted-
When I think on the ills of life's comfortless day;
How the flow'rs of my childhood their verdure have wasted
And the friends of my youth have been stolen away!
They think not how fruitless the warmest endeavour,
To recall the kind moments, neglected when near-
When the hours that oblivion has cancel'd forever,
Are interr'd by her hand-in the grave of the
year.
Since the last solemn reign of this day of reflection,
What throngs have relinquish'd life's perishing breath
How many have shed their last tear of dejection
And closed the dim eye in the darkness of death!
How many have sudden their pilgrimage ended,
Beneath the low pall that envelopes their bier;
Or to death's lonesome valley have gently descended,
And made their cold beds-with the grave of the years
'Tis the year that so late, its new beauties disclosing,
Rose bright on the happy, the careless and gay,
Who now on their pillow of dust are reposing,
Where the sod presses damp on their bosoms of clay, Then talk not of bliss while her smile is expiring, Disappointment still drowns it in misery's tear; Reflect and be wise-for the day is retiring,
And to-morrow will dawn-on the grave of the year. Yet a while and no seasons around us will flourish, But silence for each her dark mansion prepare; Where beauty no longer her roses shall nourish,
Nor the lilly o'erspread the wan cheek of despair. But the eye shall with lustre unfading be brightened, When it wakes to true bliss in yon orient sphere; By the sunbeams of splendour immortal enlightened, Which no more shall go down on the grave of a year.
SPIRIT of Night, to melancholy dear,
Hail to thy magic spell that binds the heart,
Hail to thy shadowy hour of fear;
But yet the hour to touch the heart sincere,
And sadly sorrowing fancies to impart.
Spirit of Night, I hail thy solemn power,
Thy melancholy influence o'er the mind;
O! let me wander in thy twilight hour,
Near some sequestered glen or fairy bower,
And list their music wild that sighs upon the wind.
Oh guide me where in moonlight dell,
Some fairy music on the breeze shall sigh,
Like that which wakes the soul like vesper swell;
Like that which breathes on night from cloister'd cell,
And bursts upon the soul like sounds of heavenly
melody.
Those wildering sounds that charm the ear of night,
Are like the trembling swell of convent shrine
That speed the immortal soul to realms of light,
That raise the thoughts to worlds on high so bright,
As virgin's holy chant their hymn's divine.
Oh lead me to some murmuring stream,
On whose shadowy banks the moonbeams play
There let me muse on some romantic theme,
Or sketch in fancy's eye some vision'd dream,
And think on hours of hope, though far remov'd away
Lead where dark the forest frowns,
And where "the pine woods wave on high," Whose branches make a murmuring sound,
That throw a spell so sad around,
And breathe on ear of night a sweetly plaintive sigh.
Or guide me in thy lonely hour,
Through some wild path or solitary haunt,
Where dark the clouds of heaven do lower,
Which dimly seen by fleeting moonbeam's power,
And where pale spectres raise the midnight chant.
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