***

FRAGMENT.

Yes! all is past—­swift time has fled away,
Yet its swell pauses on my sickening mind;
How long will horror nerve this frame of clay? 
I’m dead, and lingers yet my soul behind. 
Oh! powerful Fate, revoke thy deadly spell, 5
And yet that may not ever, ever be,
Heaven will not smile upon the work of Hell;
Ah! no, for Heaven cannot smile on me;
Fate, envious Fate, has sealed my wayward destiny.

I sought the cold brink of the midnight surge, 10
I sighed beneath its wave to hide my woes,
The rising tempest sung a funeral dirge,
And on the blast a frightful yell arose. 
Wild flew the meteors o’er the maddened main,
Wilder did grief athwart my bosom glare; 15
Stilled was the unearthly howling, and a strain,
Swelled mid the tumult of the battling air,
’Twas like a spirit’s song, but yet more soft and fair.

I met a maniac—­like he was to me,
I said—­’Poor victim, wherefore dost thou roam? 20
And canst thou not contend with agony,
That thus at midnight thou dost quit thine home?’
’Ah there she sleeps:  cold is her bloodless form,
And I will go to slumber in her grave;
And then our ghosts, whilst raves the maddened storm, 25
Will sweep at midnight o’er the wildered wave;
Wilt thou our lowly beds with tears of pity lave?’

’Ah! no, I cannot shed the pitying tear,
This breast is cold, this heart can feel no more—­
But I can rest me on thy chilling bier, 30
Can shriek in horror to the tempest’s roar.’

***

THE SPECTRAL HORSEMAN.

What was the shriek that struck Fancy’s ear
As it sate on the ruins of time that is past? 
Hark! it floats on the fitful blast of the wind,
And breathes to the pale moon a funeral sigh. 
It is the Benshie’s moan on the storm, 5
Or a shivering fiend that thirsting for sin,
Seeks murder and guilt when virtue sleeps,
Winged with the power of some ruthless king,
And sweeps o’er the breast of the prostrate plain. 
It was not a fiend from the regions of Hell 10
That poured its low moan on the stillness of night: 
It was not a ghost of the guilty dead,
Nor a yelling vampire reeking with gore;
But aye at the close of seven years’ end,
That voice is mixed with the swell of the storm, 15
And aye at the close of seven years’ end,
A shapeless shadow that sleeps on the hill
Awakens and floats on the mist of the heath. 
It is not the shade of a murdered man,
Who has rushed uncalled to the throne of his God, 20