GO HENRY KIRKE WHITE S POEMS. 



With frantic energy. 



'Tis wan Despair I sing ; if sing I can, 



Of him before whose blast the voice of song, 



And mirth, and hope, and happiness, all fly, 



Nor ever dare return. His notes are heard 



At noon of night, where, on the coast of blood, 



The lacerated son of Angola 



Howls forth his suff "rings to the moaning wind ; 



And when the awful silence of the night 



Strikes the chill death -dew to the murd'rer's heart, 



He speaks in every conscience-prompted word 



Half utter'd, half suppress'd — 



'Tis him I sing — Despair — terrific name, 



Striking unsteadily the tremulous chord 



Of timorous terror — discord in the sound : 



For to a theme revolting as is this, 



Dare not I woo the maids of harmony, 



Who love to sit, and catch the soothing sound 



Of lyre ^olian, or the martial bugle, 



Calling the hero to the field of glory, 



And ^ying him with deeds of high emprise, 



Anct Wtirlike triumph : but from scenes like mine 



Shrink they affirighted, and detest the bard 



Who dares to sound the hollow tones of horror. 



Hence, then, soft maids, 

 And woo the silken zephyr in the bowers 

 By Heliconia's sleep inviting stream : 

 For aid like yours I seek not ; 'tis for powers 

 Of darker hue to inspire a verse like mine ; 

 'Tis work for wizards, sorcerers, and fiends. 



Hither, ye furious imps of Acheron, 

 Nurslings of hell and beings shunning light, 

 And all the myriads of the burning concave ; 

 Souls of the damned : — Hither, oh ! come and join 

 Th' infernal chorus. 'Tis Despair I sing ! 

 He, whose sole tooth inflicts a deadlier pang 

 Than all your tortures join'd. Sing, sing Despair ! 

 Repeat the sound and celebrate his power ; 

 Unite shouts, screams, and agonizing shrieks. 



