Were assembled, a sad and a silent band,
And mourned his fate in a foreign land,
With no fond female standing by

The death-damp from his brow to dry,
To smooth his pillow, and close his eye.
But when to earth is consigned his clay,
And the holy man hath ceased to pray,
The crowd disperse-" the scene is o'er—
The world rolls on as it roll'd before."

Though arid the soil, though no verdure there be

On the shore where he rests near "that classical

sea,"

As placid he lies in his rocky grave,

As in "coral cell," or in "pearly cave;"

For in dust "the dead sleep as sweetly, as well” As if lulled in repose by the ocean-swell.

His form, though it fade on a foreign coast,

To the friends of his heart will never be lost:

And when the dead wake at the last Trump's

sound,

With his glorified soul may his body be found.

VI.

THE PHANTOMS OF THE FOREST.

A FRENCH TRADITION 27.

CHORUS OF SPIRITS.

KING! arrest thy courser's tread,

Or be number'd with the dead!

FIRST SPIRIT.

I, proud King, am the Spirit of FEAR!
Tremble, and my dread voice hear!
Attentive hear, nor give reply,

While the light wanes in thine eye.
Ashy paleness settles now

On thy cheek-and o'er thy brow
Cold and clammy drops appear,
Conjured by the voice of Fear:
Courage from thy bosom flies--
Lo! thy Spirit sinks-it dies!

I, proud King, have chilled thy heart:
Away! and with my curse depart!

SECOND SPIRIT.

I, proud King, descend from high,
Spirit of INSANITY!

To oppose my power is vain :

I fire thy blood, I fire thy brain.
Thou, who seek'st another's blood,
Who these forest paths hath trod,
Wilt not know, ere set of sun,
What thy furious arm hath done.
Madness in thine eye will glow-

Blood from friends' warm veins will flow;

I see it kindle in thine eye,

The fury of Insanity.

Phrensy seize, proud King, thy heart!

Away! and with my curse depart!

THIRD SPIRIT.

I, a Spirit from beneath,

Bear the fleshless form of DEATH!

Fear and Phrensy in my train,

Unseen I walk the wood and plain :
Desolation, Melancholy,

Moping Madness, idiot Folly,

Wisdom and Philosophy,

Run their course, and end with me.
Shall kings escape my fatal dart?
No! great and mighty as thou art,
I, proud King, shall hurl thee down,
And soil with dust thy radiant crown!
Away! and with thy thickening breath,
Know, thou feels't the clutch of Death!

CHORUS OF SPIRITS.

King! urge on thy courser's tread,

Or be numbered with the dead!
Fly the forest, we implore thee,

Fear behind, and Death before thee

Murder at thy saddle-bow

Madness burning on thy brow!

Hence depart! away, away!

King of Phrensy, live thy day,

Till, o'erspent, thou yields't thy breath, An infant in the arms of Death!

I WOULD not spend Life's little day
Without the joys of mind;

As worldlings pass their lives away,
By knowledge unrefined:

Bound, as by an iron girth,

To the grosser things of earth;
The captive of the present hour,
The slave of gain, the slave of power.

Nor would I sink the aspiring soul,
Which soars sublime with thought,
In the intoxicating bowl,

And joys with danger fraught:
But I would hold communion
With the mighty Spirits gone,
And ever fix my mental eye
On Hope and Immortality.

F