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GRAVE OF A SUICIDE.
By strangers left upon a lonely shore,
Unknown, unhonour'd, was the friendless dead: For child to weep, or widow to deplore,
There never came to his unburied head
All from his dreary habitation fled.
Nor will the lantern'd fisherman at eve
Launch on that water by the witches' tow'r,
Where hellebore and hemlock seem to weave
Round its dark vaults a melancholy bow'r,
For spirits of the dead at night's enchanted hour.
They dread to meet thee, poor
Whose crime it was, on life's unfinish'd road
To feel the stepdame buffetings of fate,
And render back thy being's heavy load.
Ah! once, perhaps, the social passions glow'd
In thy devoted bosom—and the hand
That smote its kindred heart, might yet be prone
To deeds of
Thy many woes, poor suicide, unknown?
He who thy being gave shall judge of thee alone. ODE TO WINTER.
When first the fiery-mantled sun
His heavenly race began to run;
Round the earth and ocean blue,
His children four the Seasons flew.
First, in green apparel dancing,
The young Spring smil'd with angel grace;
Rosy Summer next advancing,
Rush'd into her sire's embrace:
Her bright-hair'd sire, who bade her keep
For ever nearest to his smiles,
On Calpe's olive-shaded steep,
On India's citron-cover'd isles :
More remote and buxom-brown,
The Queen of vintage bow'd before his throne;
A rich pomegranate gemm'd her crown,
A ripe sheaf bound her zone.
But howling Winter fled afar,
To hills that prop the polar star,
And loves on deer-born car to ride,
With barren darkness by his side.
Round the shore where loud Lofoden
Whirls to death the roaring whale,
Round the hall where Runic Odin
Howls his war-song to the gale ;
Save when adown the ravag'd globe
He travels on his native storm,
Deflow’ring nature's grassy robe,
And trampling on her faded form :
Till light's returning lord assume
The shaft that drives him to his polar field,
Of power to pierce his raven plume,
And chrystal cover'd shield,