SONNET VIII.

THOU gentle Look, that didst my soul beguile,
Why hast thou left me? Still in some fond dream
Revisit my sad heart, auspicious SMILE!
As falls on closing flowers the lunar beam:
What time, in sickly mood, at parting day
I lay me down and think of happier years;
Of Joys, that glimmered in Hope's twilight ray,
Then left me darkling in a vale of tears.
O pleasant days of Hope-for ever gone!
Could I recall you!—But that thought is vain.
Availeth not Persuasion's sweetest tone
To lure the fleet-winged Travellers back again :
Yet fair, though faint, their images shall gleam
Like the bright Rainbow on a willowy stream.

SONNET IX.

PALE Roamer through the Night! thou poor Forlorn!
Remorse that man on his death-bed possess,
Who in the credulous hour of tenderness

Betrayed, then cast thee forth to Want and Scorn!
The world is pitiless: the Chaste one's pride
Mimic of Virtue scowls on thy distress:
Thy Loves and they, that envied thee, deride:
And Vice alone will shelter wretchedness!
O! I am sad to think, that there should be
Cold-bosomed Lewd ones, who endure to place
Foul offerings on the shrine of Misery,

And force from FAMINE the caress of LovE;
May He shed healing on the sore disgrace,
He, the great. COMFORTER that rules above!

SONNET X.

SWEET Mercy! how my very heart has bled
To see thee, poor OLD MAN! and thy gray hairs
Hoar with the snowy blast; while no one cares
To clothe thy shrivelled limbs and palsied head.
My Father! throw away this tattered vest
That mocks thy shivering! take my garment-use
A young man's arm! I'll melt these frozen dews
That hang from thy white beard and numb thy breast.
My SARA too shall tend thee, like a Child:
And thou shalt talk, in our fire side's recess,

Of purple Pride, that scowls on Wretchedness.

He did not so, the GALILEAN mild,

Who met the Lazars turned from rich man's doors,

And called them Friends, and healed their noisome

Sores!

SONNET XI.

THOU bleedest, my poor HEART! and thy distress Reasoning I ponder with a scornful smile

And probe thy sore wound sternly, though the while
Swoln be mine eye and dim with heaviness.

Why didst thou listen to Hope's whisper bland?
Or, listening, why forget the healing tale,
When Jealousy with feverish fancies pale
Jarred thy fine fibres with a maniac's hand?
Faint was that HOPE, and rayless !-Yet 'twas fair
And soothed with many a dream the hour of rest :
Thou should'st have loved it most, when most opprest,
And nursed it with an agony of Care,

Even as a Mother her sweet infant heir

That wan and sickly droops upon her breast!

VOL. I.

SONNET XII.

TO THE AUTHOR OF THE

66 ROBBERS."

SCHILLER! that hour I would have wished to die,
If through the shuddering midnight I had sent
From the dark dungeon of the tower time-rent
That fearful voice, a famished Father's cry-
Lest in some after moment aught more mean
Might stamp me mortal! A triumphant shout
Black HORROR screamed, and all her goblin rout
Diminished shrunk from the more withering scene!
Ah Bard tremendous in sublimity!

Could I behold thee in thy loftier mood

Wandering at eve with finely frenzied eye

Beneath some vast old tempest-swinging wood!
Awhile with mute awe gazing I would brood :
Then weep aloud in a wild ecstasy!