3. 
Oh! dark lowered the clouds on that horrible eve,
And the moon dimly gleamed through the tempested air;
Oh! how could fond visions such softness deceive? 
Oh! how could false hope rend, a bosom so fair? 20
Thy love’s pallid corse the wild surges are laving,
O’er his form the fierce swell of the tempest is raving;
But, fear not, parting spirit; thy goodness is saving,
In eternity’s bowers, a seat for thee there.

6.—­The Drowned Lover:  Song. 1811; The Lake-Storm, Rossetti, 1870.

***

POSTHUMOUS FRAGMENTS OF MARGARET MCHOLSON.

Being Poems found amongst the Papers of that noted Female who attempted the life of the King in 1786.  Edited by John Fitzvictor.

[The “Posthumous Fragments”, published at Oxford by Shelley, appeared in November, 1810.  See “Bibliographical List".]

ADVERTISEMENT.

The energy and native genius of these Fragments must be the only apology which the Editor can make for thus intruding them on the public notice.  The first I found with no title, and have left it so.  It is intimately connected with the dearest interests of universal happiness; and much as we may deplore the fatal and enthusiastic tendency which the ideas of this poor female had acquired, we cannot fail to pay the tribute of unequivocal regret to the departed memory of genius, which, had it been rightly organized, would have made that intellect, which has since become the victim of frenzy and despair, a most brilliant ornament to society.

In case the sale of these Fragments evinces that the public have any curiosity to be presented with a more copious collection of my unfortunate Aunt’s poems, I have other papers in my possession which shall, in that case, be subjected to their notice.  It may be supposed they require much arrangement; but I send the following to the press in the same state in which they came into my possession.  J. F.

WAR.

Ambition, power, and avarice, now have hurled
Death, fate, and ruin, on a bleeding world. 
See! on yon heath what countless victims lie,
Hark! what loud shrieks ascend through yonder sky;
Tell then the cause, ’tis sure the avenger’s rage 5
Has swept these myriads from life’s crowded stage: 
Hark to that groan, an anguished hero dies,
He shudders in death’s latest agonies;
Yet does a fleeting hectic flush his cheek,
Yet does his parting breath essay to speak—­ 10
’Oh God! my wife, my children—­Monarch thou
For whose support this fainting frame lies low;
For whose support in distant lands I bleed,
Let his friends’ welfare be the warrior’s meed. 
He hears me not—­ah! no—­kings cannot hear, 15