The cruelty and injustice, is consoled;
And waiting thus his triumph to obtain,
Enjoying it, though but in death to hold,
Flies his Creator's bosom to regain.
O, sweet illusion! who has had the power
To save himself from thee, who was not born
Than the cold marble, or the rough trunk lower?
With ardour I embrace, and wait thee lorn.
Yet of my Muse perchance some happier strains
Will me survive, and my sepulchral stone
Will not be left to tell of me alone!
Perhaps my name, which rancour now detains
Proscribed, will yet resound o'er Cuba's plains,
On the swift trumpet of enduring fame!
Correggio, when he saw his canvas flame
With life, "a painter," it was his to cry,
"I also am!"—A poet too am I.
ODE TO NIGHT.
Night reigns; in silence deep around
Dreams whirl through empty space;
Clothing with her pure light the ground,
The moon shows bright her face:
