Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 58, Number 358, August 1845. Various

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      And yet another prayer: you've listen'd o'er and o'er

      Unto my idle rhymes, my spirit's careless breathings,

      Mournful and gay by turns, traditions and bequeathings

      Of all my vanish'd youth. And hopes, and joy, and pain,

      And tears, and love, my friends, those burning leaves contain,

      Yea, they contain my life. From Abel and from Fanny

      Gather them all; for they are gifts of Muses many.

      Keep them. The stern cold world, and fashion's gilded hall,

      Shall never hear of them. Alas! my head must fall

      Untimely: my unripe and crude imagination

      To glory hath bequeath'd no grand and high creation;

      I shall die all. But ye, who love my parting soul,

      Keep for yourselves, O friends! my true though simple scroll;

      And when the storm is past, in a fond crowd assemble

      Sometimes to read my lines—to read, to weep, and tremble,

      And weep, and read again, and say—Yes, this is he;

      These are his words. And I, from death's cold fetter free,

      Will rise unseen and sit among ye in the bower;

      And drink your tears, as drinks the desert-sand the shower—

      In sweet oblivion.... Then shall, haply, be repaid

      All my love-woes, and thou, haply, my Captive Maid,

      Will list my love-song then, pale, mournful, but relenting...."

      But for a while the Bard ceased here his sad lamenting,

      Ceased for a moment's space, and his pale head he bow'd.

      The spring-days of his youth, loves, woes, a busy crowd,

      Flitted before him. Girls with languid eyes and tender,

      And feasts, and songs, and eyes of dark and burning splendour,

      All, all revived; and far to the dim past he flew,

      Dream-wing'd. But soon stream'd forth his murmur-song anew:—

      "Why luredst thou me astray, thou Genius evil-fated?

      For love, for quiet arts, and peace, I was created;

      Why did I leave the shade, and life's untroubled way,

      And liberty, and friends, and peace, more dear than they!

      Fate lull'd my golden youth, and cast a glamour round me,

      And joy, with careless hand, and happiness, had crown'd me,

      And the Muse shared my hours of leisure, pure and free.

      In those so joyous nights, lighted with friendly glee,

      How rang that dear abode with rhyme and merry laughter—

      Waking the household gods—how rang each shouting rafter!

      Then, weary of the feast, I from the wine-cup turn'd,

      For a new sudden fire within my bosom burn'd,

      And to my lady's bower I flew upon the morrow,

      And found her half in wrath and half in girlish sorrow,

      And with fond threats, and tears bedimming her soft eyes,

      She cursed my age, still drown'd in ceaseless revelries,

      She drove me from her, wept, forgave, and pouting chided:

      How sweetly then my time like some bright river glided!

      Ah, why from this calm life, in youth's most golden prime,

      Plunged I in this abyss, this seething hell of crime,

      Of passions fierce and fell, black ignorance, and madness,

      Malice, and lust of gold! O visionary Gladness!

      Where hast thou lured me, where? And was it then for me,

      A worshipper of love, of peace, and poesy,

      To brawl with sworders vile, wretches who stab for hire!

      Was it for me to tame the restive courser's fire

      To shake the rein, or wield the mercenary blade!

      And yet, what shall I leave?—A trace that soon shall fade,

      Of blind and senseless zeal; of courage—idle merit!—

      Be dumb, my voice, be dumb! And thou, thou lying spirit,

      Thou word, thou empty sound....Oh no!

      Be still, ye murmurings of weakness!

      And thou, O Bard! with rapture glow:

      Thou hast not bent, with slavish meekness,

      Before our age's shame thy brow;

      The splendours of the wicked spurning,

      Thou wav'dst a torch, terrific burning,

      Whose lurid lustre fiercely fell

      On that foul nest of vulture-rulers;

      Loud rang thy lash and reach'd them well.