Sleep, Baby mine-To-morrow I must leave thee, And I would snatch an interval of rest ; Sleep these last moments, ere the laws bereave thee, For never more thou'lt press a mother's breast. ODE, ADDRESSED TO H. FUSELI, ESQ. R. A. On seeing Engravings from his Designs. MIGHTY Magician! who on Torneo's brow, When sullen tempests wrap the throne of night, Art wont to sit and catch the gleam of light That shoots athwart the gloom opaque below; And listen to the distant death-shriek long From lonely mariner foundering in the deep, Serenely chaunt the orbs on high, And mark the northern meteor's dance, (While far below the fitful oar Flings its faint pauses on the steepy shore.) And list the music of the breeze, And often bears with sudden swell The shipwreck'd sailor's funeral knell, By the spirits sung who keep Their night watch on the treacherous deep, And guide the wakeful Helms-man's eye And there upon the rock inclin'd With mighty visions fill'st the mind, Such as bound in magic spell Him* who grasp'd the gates of Hell, And bursting Pluto's dark domain Held to the day the Terrors of his reign. Genius of Horror and romantic awe, Whose eye explores the secrets of the deep, Whose power can bid the rebel fluids creep, Can force the inmost soul to own its law; Who shall now, sublimest spirit, Who shall now thy wand inherit, From him† thy darling child who best Thy shuddering images exprest? Sullen of soul and stern and proud, His gloomy spirit spurn'd the croud, And now he lays his aching head In the dark mansion of the silent dead. Mighty Magician! long thy wand has lain |