*=^X?PigcX^vo i %■% Jl 3 : n-2triftMP 4. THE PSYCHOSCOPE. BY ^5 A' i^arnsr 139' OCT To those whose memories beguile The pain of other years: i'd liyht their sorrows with a smile — Baptize their griefs in tears. The Author. u%ry)V {)>,<) l'nr L'kte Index Print, Warrentorij \'a. Entered according to Act of Congress B\ B. L. Garner, In 1891 in the office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington, D. (J. I i\ ^zW'QTl i=>Q 6 PAGE IpThe Drift Perfidy It Used to Be . Caucasian Monkeys The Church Militant Woman Despair The Dream Meditations 8 11 16 '20 24 30 THE DRIFT. [To the many friends the Author has met on the highways of life.] I often watch ths rising* stream. And see the drift go by ; So like our lives its action seems, I cannot help but sigh : Strangers to-day upon the current meeting, Friends for a moment, with a smile and greeting, And then we separate. The fragments, scattered everywhere. Go drifting with the tide, A moment loiter here and there, Then on again they glide ; Drifting onward somewhere, they know not whither, But drifting downward with the restless river, Unheeding tow'rds the sea. Upon the river's liquid breast Those little crafts are tossed : A moment seen upon its crest, And then a moment lost ; That is, to us — are lost to mortal vision Albeit drifting on to fields Elysian, To fill some destiny. In and out along the shore, Into nooks and eddies swinging : Then they circle out once more, Then a little instant clinging To some other fragment, then rudely cast asunder, Still at the torrent's mercy, first out, then under. But always seaward bound. Thus we go drifting down the years, Forever tow'rds the sea ; By creeds and prayers each pilot steers. To Life's eternal quay. The lamp of hope upon the mast still burning, But drifting on, and never more returning. Until the years return. o PERFIDY. There are times in life when the heart is sad And the lips with pain are sealed ; When the pining soul canuot be glad, And the pain cannot be healed. • Tis not when death, with his poisoned dart, Hath stung the life and chilled the heart Of some devoted friend — When kindred fall, as the autumn leaves. The angels gather in the sheaves. And there our sorrows end. There are times when the heart must throb and fret, And the pangs afresh will live: When the wounded soul cannot forget. Nor the aching heart forgive. 'Tis not when remorse for our evil deeds Impels our zeal to prayers and beads, And conscience seeks to shrive: 'Tis not when the evil winds of fate Have wrecked our peace in the gulf of hate, For love may still survive. There's a balm of hope that still exalts Our faith above our sorrow: But if love is fickle and friends are false, What faith can trust to-morrow? 'Tis not the weight of bereavement's yoke, Nor stern disaster's cruel stroke, With the pain that they impart; For the lapse of time repays our loss. But perfidy is a burning cross, Which crucifies the heart. <> IT USED TO BE. Some poet said, "it might have been Are the saddest words of tongue or pen. It may be true, I cannot tell, For on sad themes I will not dwell: But there's a phrase in another tense, That's just as true in every sense, And that is, every one you see Will tell you something "used to be" The old and young of every station, Say it without variation; The rich — the poor of every clime. Were better off some other time: The prince, the paupar. sinner, saint. The proud, the humble, make complaint ; The great, the lowly, bond or free Will tell you voir "it used to be" Poverty lifts its ghastly face. And tries to smile in its disgrace — A sickly smile— a haggard grin. To cover the shame of a common sin. It plays with the shreds of tattered gowns. Alternating smiles and frowns, But finds a comfort in the plea — Although not now "it used to be." Never a pauper yet so poor Begging his bread from door to door, Who had not something he could say, Of what he'd been some former day : Some deed of valor he had done. Some battle he had lost or won. The hero of some story he Not, now is, but he "used to be." Some great exploit, he now can tell, When he was young, or rich, or well, That he has done— or might have done, If he had just been let alone. And so he thinks some future day Will find him better off : it may ; The change is but a slight degree From what it always "used to be." Strolling along the crowded street Of any city, you will meet Some poor old crone in rags and tears. Bending with the weight of years ; And the sad story she'll impart Would touch the soul and swell the heart, Until you'd think that even she Is poorer now than "used to be." The sun of life rolls down the way, The shadows lengthen day by day, The old man sits in his well-worn chair, With specs and pipe and a world of care, With shrunken limbs and failing eyes, Toothless and deaf, and thus he sighs, "Alas! how things have changed with me; There's nothing like "it used to be." "Folks aren't honest now, I know, "Like they 'used to be,' long ago; "I'm sure, that when I was a lad, "Folks loerent noihiri like so bad." And the old man, believing that Takes his red kerchief from his hat, And wipes his eyes, and says "dear me, "Things now aren't like they used to be" The good old dame with ruffled cap, Sits with her kniting in her lap: The kittens roll the yarn on floor, The house-dog lies on the rug before The glowing fire. She once was fair, But now, alas! her whitened hair, And wrinkled face, as one may see. Are nothing like they "used to be" Weary years have left their traces On these venerable faces; And now the old folks read and pray, Waiting the close of life's long day, 6 Waiting the clock on the white- washed wall, To tick the time of the final call ; Till then the old folks cannot see Why things aren't like they "use to be" The old man says, ''long, long ago'' That everything was "so-and-so." Grandma tells the children wild, How she did when she was a child: But since this world has been a world, Boys have been boys and girls been girls, And all things else, you must agree, Are much the same they "usedtobe." In the dead past we love to dwell, And of all its good we tell ; But the bad we try to hide, Because it stings our human pride When we recall the solemn truth, That we were nothing more in youth Than we are now; but somehow we Will still aver u if used to be." 'Tis true we've parted from the ways Our fathers used, in by-gone-days, To plow, to harrow, plant and sow, With scythe and sickle to reap and mow, To thresh the grain with hoof and flail, And part the chaff with sheet and pail; And bless the day that set us free From things like these, that "used to In." Every time it rains or snows, Every time a hard wind blows, All mankind join in together, "Oh! 'd you ever see such weather ?" Yes, summ3i\ winter, rain and snow, Seed-time and harvest come and go, Just as they always did: but we Are not just what we "used to he." Alas ! we've changed in age and health. Have lost our strength, and spent our wealth Like prodigals, and now we fret, And sigh, and frown, and soon forget How little of this world is ours: How, 'mid the sunshine and the show'rs Time sweeps his wing o'er land and sea The same to-day as "used to be." Go to the church-yard: one by one Read the lines upon each stone: No matter what it has beside, Each stone contains "was born" and "died" So in our lives, whatever change, How wonderful soe'er, or strange, The skeleton of life you'll see, Is just the same "it used to be." Hope and fear, passion, joy and pain, Love, hate, and anger will remain, Till th' angel, with one foot on shore, Shall "swear that time shall be no more." Till then, old Saturn with his glass, Shall measure all the hours that pass: Till then, we may expect to see Most things just like they "used to be." Man, the frail tyrant of the earth, Fretting from the hour of birth, 8 All the world in turmoil keeps, Till at last he falls asleep: Time, the hoary-headed reaper, Never shall arouse the sleeper, Till from hence our shadows flee, Back to what they "used to he!" o- CAUC ASIAN MONKEYS. Whenever I hear an American say, "I cawrit" or "I shawnC with "a diph- thongal "a," I feel a disgust which I cannot express, And feel the impulse to demand a redress. It really shocks ev'ry delicate sense, To hear any human make such a pretense; The practice is simply a thing to deride, Revolting to all true American pride. And so of a thousand -and-one other things, The Anglo-dudee to America brings; And shoddy Americans catch at the brogue And think it the latest and greatest in vogue. Oh ! silly American, where is your pride, For a country and freedom so happy and wide. On whatever folly your weakness con- cludes, Don't mimic the ways of acephalous dudes. If any American will but reflect, I think, (for the sake of his own self- respect.) If his heart with the blood of a patriot throb He would spurn to be led by a pitiful snob. The very idea of aping a monkey — To borrow the bray of a consummate donkey, Tho prince of all donkeys it well may be said — With a spoonful of brain, in a bushel of head. It's all very well for the English to say, "Ga-lawsses" and "Grawss" in that bar- barous way, But when an American copies the whine, By twisting his mouth, and distorting his spine, And then makes a failure as most of them do, Betraying their weakness and awkward- ness too — I move to appoint a committee of three, To fill up the hole where the brain ought to be. I've nothing against either scholar orr*oi>l ; I don't want an office, nor don't run a school; Nor do I deny to the ''queen of the seas," The right to pronounce ev'ry word as they please : I only condemn our American apss For twisting their words into horrible shapes, To make it appear that the "lawsses" and "lawddies." u Gawnt" utter the speech of their mothers and "dawddies." 10 Oh, listen, ye linguists ! at u favmcy n and u davmoe ' And words of this kind give the novice a u cliawncJ' To practice the sound of this wonderful letter; The more he rehearses, of course, is the better. And now when he learns how to u lithp" and U)"dswawl" He is then like a baby that's learni lg to crawl : And having learned this, it will lengthen its tether By making one step, and then two to- gether. The Anglo- American must have a horse, And bang off his tail, as a matter of course, And make the poor creature, in summer to stand With the stut of a tail, not as long as your hand, And slap at the flies with a terrible smack, That will loosen the column of bones in his back; And then you can see the poor horse shake his head. And say to himself "all the fools are not dead." The snob needs a dog, with a collar and ring, A whip with a whistle, a horn with a string, A scoop on hi c - head, and his leggings of leather, And all of these novelties taken together, 11 With corduroys "gathered before they arc ripe," Will make up an Anglo-American snipe, No matter who loses, so he's on the level, The board-bills and tailors may go to the devil. o THE CHURCH MILITANT. I saw a vision once: the scene impressed My senses with an over- whelming awe — A church, where priest and acolytes were dressed In pompous splendor. Then anon I saw The worshipers come slowly down the aisle, And kneeling silent, in their cushioned pews, With covered eyes and moving lips the while, Each one the guilty conscience did accuse, Each contrite heart avowed repent- ance there, While solemn music filled the house of prayer. Then like the swelling waves upon the ocean, The organ tones, in sacred grandeur rolled; Each suppliant, with obvious devotion, Arose and stood, and all their sins con- doled: 12 Confession next, and all absolved from sin, With open books, they mumbled o'er the psalter; Then chant and prayer filled up the time again, Until the priest descended from the altar: In strict accordance with the rubric next, He read his notices and then his text. From holy writ he pointed out the cause Of man's depraved condition from the first : And showed that Adam disobeyed the laws. For which transgression all mankind are cursed: And thus convicted every mortal son. Before the bar of justice, stood dis- owned, Until obedience was found in one, By virtue whereof all were then con- doned. And thus by proxy, man was caused to sin And thsnby proxy, sanctified again. Bahold the guileless innocence of man, The passive creature whose inherent lot Exposes him to God's eternal ban, The guiltless victim of a heartless plot, In which one man provoked the burning curse On all the mundane progeny of time, For which Jehovah damned the universe, To expurgate one trifling little crime ; And that one crime, committed by one soul, To punish which small part he'd damned the whole. 13 Whereas the gospel to our comfort brings The joyful promise of mankind redeemed : The dove of peace, with healing on its wings , The sun of hope through rifted darkness gleamed. From out the depths of man's profound despair, The songs of joy from grateful millions swell, Because the innocent is doomed to wear The burning shackles of eternal hell. How cruel — how resentful God must seem, To bear the guilt of this collossal scheme. But sage and sophist wrangle learned and loud, And wander through the labyrinths of lore; And high through regions of pedantic cloud, On arrogant, scholastic wings, they soar; So far above the common walks of thought, Their mystic perorations take their flight, That only glimpses now and then are caught, Where fledgeling laymen dare not tempt the hight. Their sacerdotal shoes are made so strange, That rights and lefts with perfect ease exchange. The sum and substance of the scheme in brief Is simply this, by Adam's fatal fall That hopeless, countless millions came to grief, Accursed with thrice the bitterness of gall. 14 When ages passed and centuries had flown, A righteous man, who never had a fault, Was made to bear the burden as his own — Was crucified, and buried in a vault; So man in fact has neither part nor lot, Not even as accomplice, in the plot. What mystic creeds self-righteous man has built, From which unbounded comfort we de- rive — One sins for all — another bears the guilt, While gods and priests at all the rest connive. This fundamental dogma is the source, From whence the murky waters of beliefs Pursue the blind meanderings of their course Through jungles, till they break upon the reefs Of reason, where whole theosophic fleets Have gone to wreck, with creeds for wind- ins: sheets. l ,-^ But such is faith, whose servile arms embrace The phantom forms which haunt the dark frontier Of ignorance : and on the narrow base Of human concept , (circumscribed by fear) , Confines Omnipotence : and from the wrecks Of former rites, to other gods performed, Constructs a creed, whose mystic ten as perplex The pious sage, whose priestly heart is warmed 15 By sacrificial fires, whose sacred flame Forever burns, in some deiflc name. Some zealous bigot, in a leisure hour, Will scan these lines, with orthodoxic eye ; His righteous spleen would piously devour The heretic, who durst his creed deny: But friend, I trust there is a God, indeed I feel the pressing instinct to believe; But not that he should ever wish or need Oblations, blood, or victims to retrieve The loss which guilt entailed, when Jus- tice, bribed. The sins of one, to all the race ascribed. How could the God of mercy ever crave The blood or peace of any guiltless thing? It takes no blood, or fire, or prayers to save: No paschal lamb before his alter bring. Each heart's a temple, every soul's a priest And conscience is the gift upon the altar: Let pagans sacrifice with bird or beast, And thus believe their peccant deeds to palter: Two words indite the universal creed — u Do right" and God will ever bless the deed. 16 WOMAN. TO THOSE WHOSE HEARTS ARE EDENS OF THEIR LOVE. Ob! fairest creature, born of love and grace, What tongue can sing thy meed of praise replete ? Such dreams of heaven linger in thy face That angels bow in homage at thy feet. The artful mind that first conceived thy mold, Itself beheld thee with enamored eyes, And gave to man thy blushing charms untold, To fill his soul with joy — his heart with sighs. Upon thy head is lavished all the wealth Of flowing tresses, like a golden dawn; Caressing thee in tender, playful stealth, They fall like shadows o'er they virgin form: And o'er thy shoulders fair the ringlets roll Like waves of amber on a sea of gold. And o'er thy bosom, pours the golden stream, As softly as the tread of falling snow: As noiseless as the footsteps of a dream, Adown thine arms the silken treas- ures flow. 17 Then smiling through that mist of golden hair, Those eyes, in which the beams of heaven shine, Their tender light inspires the lips of prayer, And all the world is bending at thy shrine. The angels first beheld, in Eden's bowers, Thy beauty, on that primal Sabbath morn ; And saw thee strolling 'mid ambrosian flowers: No art presumed thy beauty to adorn — Elysian zephyrs paid their am'rous vow, And kissed the ringlets on thy virgin brow. But when that happy Sabbath's rising sun, O'er sinless Eden, cast his jealous ray, Then Envy, with an evil eye begun To search thee for a fault, and from that day The serpent set his heart upon thy fall, And to that end his rhetoric did devise The web of argument which would en- thrall, And lead thee from the shades of Para- dise; And having thus his speech rehearsed and conned To please thy vanity; his nimble tongue Well trained ; his wits forestalling thee, respond To every qualm, whose rueful darts have stung Thy disobedience. Oh! thou so pure, Who walked the thornless ways of love demure. 18 His shrewd orations were prepared to suit His fiendish task ; his scaly length en- coiled About the tree where hung the fatal fruit, His adulations first thy heart entoiied, And gained an audience. The sacred portals Of thy heart unbarred ; thy vigilance disarmed, Thou'dst listen with the vanity of mortals, And by his burning eloquence wert charmed. And thus temptation steals upon the heart, While glozing words unlock the temple gate, And bribe the guards which conscience set apart To warn us of the danger ere too late. Beware, oh, woman ! of that serpent's tongue, For every soul that's listened, he hath stung. That slimy serpent who conceived the plan That filled the earth with heresy and dread, Was not a crawling reptile — it was man — The selfish monarch whose imperious tread Hath shook the earth. Yea, he, whose tyrant hand Hath swayed with zeal the crimson rod of empire, And drenched, with human gore, the sea and land, And warmed the world for centuries with camp-fires — 19 The despot who hath built his ample throne Upon thy trusting heart, and now doth wait To find thee in thy citadel alone: His pampered cohorts, standing at thy gate, Shall tread thy crown of virtue in the dust, And thou shaltpay thy tribute to his lust. Upon the ruins of thy broken heart. He will erect a monarchy of scorn ; Will tear the garments of thy shame apart, And leave thee naked, weeping, and for- lorn. Dethroned, and banished from thy queenly state, In moral beggary thy heart will grope ; Thy tears will never move the heart of Fate; Despair will thrust thee from the gates of Hope : Remorse will guide thee down the mighty way ; Thy lagging steps by Pain will be pur- sued ; And Passions, like the famished birds of prey, Will tear thy breast to feed their starv- ing brood : Thy pallid lips will blight the name of prayer, And Death will mock thy sorrow and des- pair. 20 But thou canst break the sceptre of his power, And make him bend his royal head in awe ; Unlock the dungeons of his storm-proof tower, And bind his minions with the chains of law : Yea! thou canst slay the dragon of his lust, And bear thy banner through his vacant halls, While dews of peace will hide his sword with rust, His armor hanging on his castle walls, If thou wilt arm with Virtue's golden shield, And let true Honor meet his bold advance, And march Resentment to the open field, Where Charity shall hurl her warlike lance: When man is met by woman, true and brave, He'll chain his vassals and become her slave. ■o DESPAIR. TO THOSE WHO ARE WEARY OF WAITING. Ye toiling mariners of time, ahoy ! The sea is heavy and the winds are hoarse ; Through fogs of doubt, no beacon -light or buoy Shall guide your wandering bark upon its course. 21 Ten-thousand reefs beset the sea of life : In vain your anchors to the w inward cast * The storms of sorrow and the winds of strife Shall drift you leeward till the night is past. The chafing billows mock the shrieking gale, And lash their wrath against the how- ling night ; The burning souls of sheol curse and wail, While evil gods with bolts of ruin smite. Ye fates and demons ! why should man be borne, To bear the curse of others, and in vain, For their defaults, henceforth forever mourn Within that voiceless solitude of pain ? Alas ! what solitude is there so deep As that we find amid the living throng ? What grief so sharp as one that cannot weep ? What sweet relief to give our woes a tongue ! But why — oh, why! should I repine and fret ? What hope can rise from such profound despair ? I could forgive, if I could then forget, The galling wrongs this life has had to bear. 22 Accursed hope ! that looks for joy to- morrow ; The ghouls of yesterday infest that shore: I drain the dreg*s of this last cup of sorrow; What wretch of earth could ever thirst for more ? Misfortune crowned my infant brow with thorns ; Despair bestrewed my path with with- ered flowers, The angels wept — Fate smiled when I was born : The Furies marked the dial at he hours. Hope turned away and sighed — Faith look- ed and fled — Not even smiled the good grace, Charity: I must have seemed so monster-like — so dread, That ne'er before was seen my parity. The demons of the deep — that evil crew — Surely attended on that natal day ; And ere the vital breath of life I drew, Some fatal shadow fell across my way. No tender heart, heaving its am'rous sighs Hath loved me ; no loving arms caressed me ; No arch of beauty spanning my dark skies Hath ever, with one fruitful promise blessed me: No rosy fingers smooth the brow of care, No lips of love seduce the leaden hours, Or seal the slumbering eyes with whisper- ed prayer, While cherubs light the lamps in heav- en's toAv'rs. 23 The gladsome voice of revelry no more Can win my melancholy heart, or break The spell that binds me to this dismal shore, Where drowsy Hope shall never more awake From dreamless sleep, or spread her downy wings, To fan the brow of Agony. Grim Care, In the midnight of my grief, around me flings Her sable shroud, and pins it with despair. My life is like a harp with broken strings; Its severed chords will never more prolong The trembling echo which around it clings; It nevermore shall wake the voice of song. There is no charm in life's unhappy dream To lure ms back from those eternal shades ; Life has no hope which time may yet re- deem, For hope untimely born untimely fades. Unhappy world! how keen thy dagger stings, How burns the lash with which thou dost embroil My chafing spirit, whose obeisant wings Already droop and bend with fruitless toil. Oh ! is there not somewhere a cloistered cell- Some secret vault — some consecrated cave, Where sweet Lethean waters quench the hell Of memory, in their oblivious wave ? 24 Oh wretched world! in sorrow and despair, I fling at thee the gaudy, gilded toys, With which thou hast allured my childish care, To chase the butterflies of hopeless joys. I hate thee, with a poisoned hate, oh, world ! And who, that once thy bitter chalice sips, Would not, its venomed contents at thee hurl. And seal with burning curse, his dying lips? But I shall speak no bitter words of hate, Nor sob with penitence, or keen regret ; But Peace shall guide me through the silent gate, Where parting pilgrims pay the final debt. No dream shall call the echoes from the past ; Nor vision rend the veil of future care ; The muse of grief, my horoscope has cast, And Hope has kissed the feet of pale Despair. "O- THE DREAM, • Twas night meridian; the world was still, Except the tower clock which promptly rung Twelve notes in monotone, as loud and shrill As e'er was uttered by its iron tongue. 25 The chanticleers from many a neighbor- ing' hill Responded in a chorus clear and strong, And like the sentry from his nightly beat, Call out the watch of night and then repeat. Then silence once again her mantle spread O'er all the slumbrous realm of night serene, And Morpheus pinned the curtains of each bed: The waning moon poured down her sil- ver sheen, And appparitions stalked with noiseless tread, While restless spirits walked the night unseen: Repose sat brooding o'er nocturnal deep, My prayers committed me to balmy sleep. From thence till dawn had curtained in the stars, And young Apollo, with his fiery team, Drove up the steeps of Heav'n his flaming car, And matin prayers had blessed the rising beam ; Till fair Aurora drew the golden bars, My soul was tortured with a fitful dream : A dream so full of terror, tears and pain, I would not, for a kingdom, dream again. Ecstatic symphonies from golden lutes By magic fingers o'er the gamut swept, Harmonic numbers from a thousand flutes So touched my heart, that in my dream, I wept: 26 But as the notes of siren songs transmute The sane to madness, so across me crept The spell insidious, till the mellow tones Were waiis of grief, discordant sighs and groans. The beauteous forms which erst had hov- ered near. On wings which Iris might have worn with pride, Transformed to grinning skeletons appear, And, with their bony arms extended wide, The empty sockets of their eyes would leer; Their naked teeth anon would sneer and chide. They mocked at life's attenuated breath, And scoffed at sleep's frail mimicry of death. They tempted me, with many a suasive beck, To follow where the phantom pilot led, Until my terror could no longer check The impulse, which, though filled with mortal dread, At last prevailed, and weary of life's wreck, Methoughtmy terror and reluctance fled: And thence through shades of silence dark as doom, My journey led me to the land of tombs. The way was rugged and the night was dark : The astral sparks of Galaxy had died: My grim companions vouchsafed no re- marl: 27 The strength my courage lack d, my fears supplied, While at my heels a thousand terrors hark- ed, Till Erebus resounded as they cried. A thousand fiends crouched in a thousand nooks, With eyes aflame, and torture in their looks. Ten thousand serpents hissed with fiery stings, And scorpions of most unweildy length, And dragons huge, with phosphorescent wings And burning claws of most proligious strength, Chimeras, ghouls— ten thousand nameless things — Offspring and heirs of darkness and of stench, Too frightful to recall — too hideous to tell, Their habitat, the dark domains of hell. Anon we crossed a sighing lake of tears. Whose sleeping waves our ploughing keel did startle, As o'er its flood the lab 'ring pilot steers Unto the Isle of Night, where weeping mortal, Bent down with grief, (the recompense of years,) At last arrives before the ebon portal, Where Faith has written on the arching cope In beams of light, the sacred nr.me of "Hope." 28 Alas ! metkousrht here is the marble srate, Through which the armies of the world must march : Pilgrim with staff and king with rod of state, Alike must bend his head beiieath its arch: No pomp can flex the iron will of Fate; And though the f erver of her zeal should parch The universe, her fiat, grim and stern, Will stand, though earth and space and Heaven burn. I turned and looked across the stygian tide Towards the shores of Time where mor- tals dwell — That realm of grief — that monarchy of pride — The prince's paradise — the pauper's hell, Where want and wealth the ways of life divide — Where kindred part and never say "fare- well—" That land where love with treachery so blends That friends, like cannibals, devour their friends. I heard the prayer of orphans, and a sigh Escaped the lodgement of my sorrow's keeping; I heard the stifled voice of Justice cry ; I heard the piteous sobs of Mercy weep- 29 I heard deep murmurs in the earth and sky, And wondered, can it be that God is sleeping ? I heard, at times, the fragments of a song The saints repeat, "how long, oh. Lord ! how long ?" I saw the lightning break his fiery chains. And hurl his shining javelin through cloud; The} r groaned in labor, and writhing in pains Brought forth the storm in thunder deep and loud. Oblivion spread her wings across the plains, And wrapped the earth in her eternal shroud. 'Twas Evil's holiday ! I stood in wait, A dreadful moment at the mystic gate. The ghastly warden rolled his lurid eyes, As if to mock that deep and dismal gloom: That monarch, who demands the last excise, With firmness held the giant key of doom: The distant thunders moaned along the skies, And mournful echoes answered from the tomb: He turned the key — I felt his putrid breath — . The bolts were drawn which lock the doors of death. :-5