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 dismayed 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 fantasies upon me throng, And I do ponder with most strange delight, On the calm slumbers of the dead man's night.

TO APRIL.

EMBLEM of life! see changeful April sail
In varying vest along the shadowy skies,
Now, bidding Summer's softest zephyrs rise,
Anon, recalling Winter's stormy gale,

And pouring from the cloud her sudden hail;

Then, smiling through the tear that dims her eyes, 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 aery 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 stretched 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 sequestered 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 ecstasy.

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, unmixed 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.

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 my silent grave.
God of the just! thou gavest the bitter cup,
I bow to thy behest, and drink it up.

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 fortell 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.

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?

TO A FRIEND IN DISTRESS,

Who, when the author reasoned with him calmly, asked, "If he did not feel for him?"

"Do I not feel?" The doubt is keen as steel.
Yea, I do feel-most exquisitely feel;

My heart can weep, when from my downcast eye
I chase the tear, and stem the rising sigh:
Deep buried there I close the rankling dart,
And smile the most when heaviest is my heart.
On this I act-whatever pangs surround,
'Tis magnanimity to hide the wound.

When all was new, and life was in its spring,
I lived an unloved solitary thing;
Even then I learnt to bury deep from day
The piercing cares that wore my youth away.
Even then I learnt for others' cares to feel,
Even then I wept I had not power to heal;

Even then, deep-sounding through the nightly gloom, I heard the wretch's groan, and mourned the wretched's doom.

Who were my friends in youth ?-The midnight fire—
The silent moonbeam, or the starry choir;

To these I 'plained, or turned from outer sight,
To bless my lonely taper's friendly light;
I never yet could ask, howe'er forlorn,
For vulgar pity mixed with vulgar scorn;
The sacred source of woe I never ope,
My breast's my coffer, and my God's my hope.
But that I do feel, time, my friend, will show,
Though the cold crowd the secret never know:
With them I laugh-yet when no eye can see,
I weep for nature, and I weep for thee.
Yes, thou didst wrong me, ; I fondly thought,
In thee I'd found the friend my heart had sought;
I fondly thought that thou couldst pierce the guise,
And read the truth that in my bosom lies;

I fondly thought ere Time's last days were gone,
Thy heart and mine had mingled into one!
Yes-and they yet will mingle. Days and years
Will fly, and leave us partners in our tears:
We then shall feel that friendship has a power,
To soothe affliction in her darkest hour;
Time's trial o'er, shall clasp cach other's hand,
And wait the passport to a better land.

Half-past 11 o'clock at night.

Thine,

H. K. WHITE.

CHRISTMAS-DAY, 1804.

YET Once more, and once more, awake, my harp,
From silence and neglect-one lofty strain;