Din horrible! as though the rebel train
Had sprung from chaos, fought, and fall’n again,
Raves the high bolt:  how yon old structure fell;
How every cranny trembled with the yell
Of frighted owls, whose secret haunts forlorn
Were from their kindred vaults and windings torn;
Of bold Antiquity’s rough pencil born. 
Thrice Fancy leads the dismal echo round,
And paints the spectre gliding o’er the ground. 
From ev’ry turret, ev’ry vanquish’d tower,
In heaps confused the broken fragments pour;
And, as they plunge toward the pebbly grave,
Like wizard wand, draw circles in the wave. 
Meand’ring stream! thy liquid jaws extend,
Anoint with Lethe now thy fallen friend. 
Again the heralds of the thunder fly,
In forky squadrons, from the trembling sky!

Again the thunder its harsh menace swells,
And light-wing’d echoes hail the humbled cells! 
Weep, weep, ye clouds! with heav’n-bespangled tears;
And, ah! if pity rules your sacred spheres,
Invoke the thunder to withstay its rage,
Disarm its fury, and its wrath assuage.

But now, Aurora, from the Ocean’s verge,
Trims her gray lamp, to light the mournful dirge. 
She comes, to light the ruinated heap: 
But lights, to wake the pensive soul to weep!

ON THE DEATH OF NELSON.

Swift through the land while Fame transported flies,
And shouts triumphant shake th’ illumined skies;
Britannia, bending o’er her dauntless prows,
With laurels thickening round her blazon’d brows,
In joy dejected, sees her triumph cross’d,
Exults in Victory won, but mourns the Victor lost. 
Immortal NELSON! still with fond amaze
Thy glorious deed each British eye surveys,
Beholds thee still, on conquer’d floods afar: 
Fate’s flaming shaft! the thunderbolt of war! 
Hurl’d from thy hands, Britannia’s vengeance roars,
And bloody billows stain the hostile shores: 
Thy sacred ire Confed’rate Kingdoms braves,
And ’whelms their Navies in Sepulchral waves! 
—­Graced with each attribute which Heaven supplies
To Godlike Chiefs:  humane, intrepid, wise: 
His Nation’s Bulwark, and all Nature’s pride,
The Hero lived, and as he lived—­he died: 
Transcendant destiny! how bless’d the brave,
Whose fall his Country’s tears attend, shower’d on his trophied grave!

THE BLUE-EYED MAID.

Sweet are the hours when roseate spring
  With health and joy salutes the day. 
When zephyr, borne on wanton wing,
  Soft whispering, wakes the blushing May. 
Sweet are the hours, yet not so sweet
As when my blue-eyed Maid I meet,
And hear her soul-entrancing tale,
Sequester’d in the shadowy vale.

The mellow horn’s long-echoing notes
  Startle the morn, commingling strong;
At eve, the harp’s wild music floats. 
  And ravish’d Silence drinks the song. 
Yet sweeter is the song of love,
When EMMA’S voice enchants the grove,
While listening sylphs repeat the tale,
Sequester’d in the silent vale.