SONNET. TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OF M. DESBARREAUX. THY judgments, Lord, are just; thou lov'st to wear And even thy mercy dares not plead for me! Did from mine eyes the endless torrents flow; SONNET. WHEN I sit musing on the chequer'd past When that was all my wealth. 'Tis true my breast 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, Where gloomy storms their sullen shadows fling. Away with thoughts like these-To some lone cave 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- 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. 1 THE night it was still, and the moon it shone And the waves at the foot of the rifted rock 2 When Gondoline roam'd 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. 3 Her thoughts they were drear, and the silent tear It fill'd her faint blue eye, As oft she heard, in fancy's ear, 4 Her Bertrand was the bravest youth And he was gone to the Holy Land 5 And many a month had pass'd away, But nothing the maid from Palestine 6 Full oft she vainly tried to pierce Full oft she thought her lover's bark 7 And every night she placed a light In the high rock's lonely tower, To guide her lover to the land, Should the murky tempest lower. 8 But now despair had seized her breast, 'Oh tell me but if Bertrand live, 9 She wander'd o'er the lonely shore, She heard the scream with a sickening heart, 10 Yet still she kept her lonely way, Oh! tell me but if Bertrand live, 11 And now she came to a horrible rift A bleak and blasted oak o'erspread |