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.

SONNET.

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

ecstasy.

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.

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 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 't is 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 drench'd in Christ's atoning blood?

SONNET.

WHEN I sit musing on the chequer'd past
(A term much darken'd with untimely woes),
My thoughts revert to her, for whom still flows
The tear, though half disown'd; and binding fast
Pride's stubborn cheat to my too yielding heart,
I say to her she robb'd 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 wrong'd, I love her
For she was most unworthy.

yet in anger love, 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 waste the vital fire?