SONNET. WHEN I sit musing on the chequer'd past 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 wrong'd, 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, And melancholy waste 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 shaftsBleak 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 And the waves at the foot of the rifted rock When Gondoline roam'd along the shore, Her thoughts they were drear, and the silent tear As oft she heard, in fancy's ear, Her Bertrand was the bravest youth And he was gone to the Holy Land And many a month had pass'd away, But nothing the maid from Palestine Full oft she vainly tried to pierce And every night she placed a light To guide her lover to the land, Should the murky tempest lower. But now despair had seized her breast, She wander'd o'er the lonely shore, She heard the scream with a sickening heart, Yet still she kept her lonely way, And this was all her cry, "Oh! tell me but if Bertrand live, And I in peace shall die." And now she came to a horrible rift A bleak and blasted oak o'erspread And pendant from its dismal top The hemlock and the aconite Across the mouth were flung. And all within was dark and drear, And as she enter'd the cavern wide, Her foot it slipp'd, and she stood aghast, Yet, still upheld by the secret charm, And now upon her frozen ear Mysterious sounds arose; So, on the mountain's piny top The blustering north wind blows. |