Banish the thought!— where'er our steps may roam, SONNET. YES, 't will be over soon. This sickly dream Of life will vanish from my And death my wearied spirit will redeem Yon landscape smile, yon golden harvest grow, They laugh in health, and future evils brave; SONNET TO CONSUMPTION. GENTLY, most gently, on thy victim's head, And if 'tis true, what holy men have said, Of death to those good men who fall thy prey, Whisper the solemn warning in mine ear; SONNET. TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OF M. DESBARREAUX. THY judgments, Lord, are just: thou lovest to wear The face of pity and of love divine; But mine is guilt thou must not, canst not spare, While heaven is true, and equity is thine. Yes, oh my God! — such crimes as mine, so dread, Leave but the choice of punishment to thee; Thy interest calls for judgment on my head, And even thy mercy dares not plead for me! Thy will be done, since 'tis thy glory's due, Did from mine eyes the endless torrents flow; Smite - it is time-though endless death ensue, I bless the avenging hand that lays me low. But on what spot shall fall thine anger's flood, That has not first been drenched in Christ's atoning blood? SONNET. WHEN I sit musing on the chequered past my breast Received from her this wearying, lingering smart; Yet, ah! I cannot bid her form depart; Though wronged, I love her-yet in anger love, Vindictive joy; and on my stern front gleams, The native pride of my much injured heart. SONNET. SWEET to the gay of heart is Summer's smile, Where gloomy storms their sullen shadows fling And melancholy wastes the vital fire? Away with thoughts like these - to some lone cave Where howls the shrill blast, and where sweeps the wave, Direct my steps; there, in the lonely drear, I'll sit remote from worldly noise, and muse Till through my soul shall Peace her balm infuse, And whisper sounds of comfort in mine ear. SONNET. QUICK o'er the wintry waste dart fiery shafts Bleak blows the blast-now howls - then faintly dies And oft upon its awful wings it wafts The dying wanderer's distant, feeble cries. Now, when athwart the gloom gaunt Horror stalks, Yet oft his bosom heaves with rending throes, And oft big tears adown his worn cheeks trill. Ah! 'tis the anguish of a mental sore, Which gnaws his heart, and bids him hope no more. BALLADS, SONGS, AND HYMNS. GONDOLINE. A BALLAD. THE night it was still, and the moon it shone And the waves at the foot of the rifted rock When Gondoline roamed along the shore, Though love had made bleak the rose on her cheek, Her thoughts they were drear, and the silent tear As oft she heard, in fancy's ear, Her Bertrand was the bravest youth |