Page:Oriental Sketches Dramatic Sketches and Tales.pdf/128

To win me into sweet forgetfulness.
I am cut off, abandoned, left to pine
In solitary misery. Is there then
No source, no spring of hope, to bring me bliss?
This desolated bosom answers,—No!
Then, like the demon of the air, the fiend
Who raises tempests, revels in the roar
Of hurricanes and overwhelming waves,
Laughs at the shipwreck, feels a wild delight
Whene'er the furious avalanche descends
In ruin o'er bright nature's fairest works,
I will transform these maddening shouts of joy
To bitter lamentations of despair,—
These festal dresses, splendid theatres,
To mourning robes, and scaffolds red with blood:—
My fevered lip shall never more repeat
A prayer, an unavailing prayer, to Heaven.
Spirit of Evil! wheresoe'er thou dwell'st—
Or mid the torrid zone, hatching red plagues
And yellow pestilence, beneath the beams