Poetry Archives

Oh! who would cherish life,
  And cling unto this heavy clog of clay,
  Love this rude world of strife,
Where glooms and tempests cloud the fairest day;
    And where, ’neath outward smiles,
  Conceal’d the snake lies feeding on its prey,
  Where pitfalls lie in every flowery way,
    And sirens lure the wanderer to their wiles!
  Hateful it is to me,
Its riotous railings and revengeful strife;
  I’m tired with all its screams and brutal shouts
Dinning the ear;—away—away with life!
    And welcome, oh! thou silent maid,
    Who in some foggy vault art laid,

Where never daylight’s dazzling ray
Comes to disturb thy dismal sway;
And there amid unwholesome damps dost sleep,
In such forgetful slumbers deep,
That all thy senses stupefied
Are to marble petrified.
Sleepy Death, I welcome thee!
Sweet are thy calms to misery.
Poppies I will ask no more,
Nor the fatal hellebore;
Death is the best, the only cure,
His are slumbers ever sure.
Lay me in the Gothic tomb,
In whose solemn fretted gloom
I may lie in mouldering state,
With all the grandeur of the great:
Over me, magnificent,
Carve a stately monument;
Then thereon my statue lay,
With hands in attitude to pray,
And angels serve to hold my head,
Weeping o’er the father dead.
Duly too at close of day,
Let the pealing organ play;
And while the harmonious thunders roll,
Chant a vesper to my soul:
Thus how sweet my sleep will be,
Shut out from thoughtful misery!