Banish the thought!— where'er our steps may roam,
O'er smiling plains, or wastes without a tree,
Still will fond memory point our hearts to thee,
And paint the pleasures of thy peaceful home;
While duty bids us all thy griefs assuage,
And smooth the pillow of thy sinking age.

SONNET.

YES, 't will be over soon.

This sickly dream
feverish brain;

Of life will vanish from my

And death my wearied spirit will redeem
From this wild region of unvaried pain.
Yon brook will glide as softly as before,

Yon landscape smile, yon golden harvest grow,
Yon sprightly lark on mountain wing will soar
When Henry's name is heard no more below.
I sigh when all my youthful friends caress,

They laugh in health, and future evils brave;
Them shall a wife and smiling children bless,
While I am mouldering in the silent grave.
God of the just, Thou gavest the bitter cup;
I bow to thy behest, and drink it up.

SONNET TO CONSUMPTION.

GENTLY, most gently, on thy victim's head,
Consumption, lay thine hand!-let me decay
Like the expiring lamp, unseen, away,
And softly go to slumber with the dead.

And if 'tis true, what holy men have said,
That strains angelic oft foretell the day

Of death to those good men who fall thy prey,
O let the aërial music round my bed,
Dissolving sad in dying symphony,

Whisper the solemn warning in mine ear;
That I may bid my weeping friends good-by
Ere I depart upon my journey drear;
And, smiling faintly on the painful past,
Compose my decent head, and breathe my last.

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
(A term much darkened with untimely woes),
My thoughts revert to her, for whom still flows
The tear, though half disowned; and binding fast
Pride's stubborn cheat to my too yielding heart,
I say to her she robbed me of
my rest,
When that was all my wealth. 'Tis true

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,
For she was most unworthy. Then I prove

Vindictive joy; and on my stern front gleams,
Throned in dark clouds, inflexible

The native pride of my much injured heart.

SONNET.

SWEET to the gay of heart is Summer's smile,
Sweet the wild music of the laughing Spring;
But ah! my soul far other scenes beguile,

Where gloomy storms their sullen shadows fling
Is it for me to strike the Idalian string-
Raise the soft music of the warbling wire,
While in my ears the howls of furies ring,

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,
And midnight hags their damned vigils hold,
The pensive poet 'mid the wild waste walks,
And ponders on the ills life's paths unfold.
Mindless of dangers hovering round, he goes,
Insensible to every outward ill;

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
Serenely on the sea,

And the waves at the foot of the rifted rock
They murmured pleasantly,

When Gondoline roamed along the shore,
A maiden full fair to the sight;

Though love had made bleak the rose on her cheek,
And turn'd it to deadly white.

Her thoughts they were drear, and the silent tear
It filled her faint blue eye,

As oft she heard, in fancy's ear,
Her Bertrand's dying sigh.

Her Bertrand was the bravest youth
Of all our good king's men,
And he was gone to the Holy Land
To fight the Saracen.