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As thus oppress'd with many a heavy care
(Though young yet sorrowful), I turn my feet
To the dark woodland, longing much to greet The form of Peace, if chance she sojourn there; Deep thought and dismal, verging to despair,
Fills my sad breast; and, tired with this vain coil,
I shrink dismay'd before life's upland toil. And as amid the leaves, the evening air Whispers still melody,- I think ere long,
When I no more can hear, these woods will speak;
And then a sad smile plays upon my cheek, And mournful phantasies upon me throng, And I do ponder with most strange delight, On the calm slumbers of the dead man's night.
SONNET TO APRIL.
EMBLEM of life! see changeful April sail
In varying vest along the shadowy skies,
Now bidding summer's softest zephyrs rise,
Then, smiling through the tear that dims hereyes,
While Iris with her braid the welkin dyes, Promise of sunshine, not so prone to fail.
So, to us, sojourners in life's low vale,
The smiles of fortune flatter to deceive,
While still the fates the web of misery weave. So Hope exultant spreads her aëry sail, And from the present gloom the soul conveys To distant summers and far happier days.
Ye unseen spirits, whose wild melodies,
At evening rising slow, yet sweetly clear,
Steal on the musing poet's pensive ear, As by the wood-spring stretch'd supine he lies ; When he, who now invokes you, low is laid,
His tired frame resting on the earth's cold bed; Hold ye your nightly vigils o'er his head,
And chant a dirge to his reposing shade ! For he was wont to love your madrigals;
And often by the haunted stream, that laves
The dark sequester'd woodland's inmost caves, Would sit and listen to the dying falls, Till the full tear would quiver in his eye, And his big heart would heave with mournful
SONNET TO A TAPER.
'Tis midnight. On the globe dead slumber sits;
And all is silence—in the hour of sleep; Save when the hollow gust, that swells by fits,
In the dark wood roars fearfully and deep. I wake alone to listen and to weep,
To watch my taper, thy pale beacon burn; And, as still Memory does her vigils keep,
To think of days that never can return. By thy pale ray I raise my languid head,
My eye surveys the solitary gloom ; And the sad meaning tear, unmix'd with dread,
Tells thou dost light me to the silent tomb. Like thee I wane ;—like thine my life's last ray Will fade in loneliness, unwept, away.
SONNET TO MY MOTHER.
AND canst thou, Mother, for a moment think
That we, thy children, when old age shall shed
Its blanching honours on thy weary head, Could from our best of duties ever shrink? Sooner the sun from his high sphere should sink
Than we, ungrateful, leave thee in that day,
To pine in solitude thy life away, Or shun thee, tottering on the grave's cold brink. 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.
YES, 'twill be over soon.—This sickly dream
Of life will vanish from my feverish brain ; 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 mounting 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.
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
E’er I depart upon my journey drear : And, smiling faintly on the painful past, Compose my decent head, and breathe my last.
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 drench'd in Christ's ato
ning blood ?