Classic Poem

Now ev'ry hope had yielded to Despair,
And Fancy's golden dream dissolv'd in air;
The sad M ELISSA mourn'd her hapless case,
Her fav'rite scheme had ended in disgrace!
A dismal course succeeds of grief and sorrow,
As Shakespeare says, “to-morrow and to-morrow”
“And yet”—she cries, my secret cares I'll speak,
And wear in sad complaints the ling'ring week:
Relentless G RUMIO !—barb'rous and unjust!
Know, I submit alone—because I must:
Know, 'tis to thee my deep distress I owe,
Thy promis'd dance had made my bosom glow;
Ev'n the dear sound my conscious soul inspires,
And eager Hope reluctantly retires.—
Alas! 'tis gone! I see my wretched doom!
'Tis fix'd—this dire impenetrable gloom!
Instead of fiddles, sweet bewitching tone,
The boding Screechowl wounds my ear alone:
The ruthless wind, thro' some tremendous door,
Creeps in, with horrid noise, unmark'd before!
Some watchful cur, perchance, affords its aid,
And swells the horrors of the midnight shade.
My list'ning ear each fearful sound retains;
A deadly chill runs icy thro' my veins.
—Some Ghost, methinks, frequents these dreary walls,
And scares my senses with its doleful calls!
I see—I hear!—It says, or seems to say—
I know not what—then sinks and fades away!
—Or terrors less sublime afford relief:
No spectre comes—but lo! the murd'rous thief
Around he casts his fierce rapacious eyes—
The desolated scene his search defies!
Enrag'd, with keen vexation and with spite,
He sends me headlong to the shades of night.

Ah G RUMIO ! think, thy kind indulgent pow'r
Had drove these terrors from the midnight hour
Instead of hollow sounds, increas'd by fear,
A joyous band might charm a damsel's ear;
Anticipated mirth wou'd horror chase,
And sweet contentment triumph in its place
Where Fancy once a hideous phantom drew,
A dazzling uniform might please my view!
The sprightly dance, the compliment so fine,
The matchless partner, Fancy, had been thine!
And how can thoughts terrific claim a part,
When glowing expectation warms the heart?
But oh! that expectation now is past—
That late fatigue, so charming, was the last!
That broken slumber, which succeeds a Ball,
The dark extinguish'd morn—I know it all.
—What tho' the glass a living phantom gives,
'Tis thus the girl of active genius lives.

Unhappy maid! that here I'm doom'd to stay—
The mournful ev'ning brings no second day:
Two candles prim, their horrid light produce;
Perverted, dismal things—they're set for use!
And useful thoughts—a sullen freezing train,
Your moping Dowagers may preach in vain!—
Some rich romance, in soothing language drest,
Shall sooth the anguish of my soul to rest:
Or fair cosmetic, with its eastern pow'r,
Shall claim the labours of my dreary hour;
While future conquests claim a feeble light,
And formal sleep returns, in league with night.