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Now Autumn sickens on the languid sight,

And leaves bestrew the wanderer's lonely way, Now unto thee, pale arbitress of night,

With double joy my homage do I pay.

When clouds disguise the glories of the day, And stern November sheds her boisterous blight,

How doubly sweet to mark the moony ray Shoot through the mist from the ethereal height,

And, still unchanged, back to the memory bring The smiles Favonian of life's earliest spring!

WRITTEN AT THE GRAVE OF A FRIEND.

Fast from the West the fading day-streaks fly,

And ebon Night assumes her solemn sway, Yet here alone, unheeding time, I lie,

And o'er my friend still pour the plaintive lay.
Oh! 'tis not long since, George, with thee I woo'd

The maid of musings by yon moaning wave.
And hail'd the moon's mild beam, which, now renew'd,

Seems sweetly sleeping on thy silent grave!
The busy world pursues its boisterous way,

The noise of revelry still echoes round,
Yet I am sad while all beside is gay:

Yet still I weep o'er thy deserted mound.
Oh! that, like thee, I might bid sorrow cease,
And 'neath the greensward sleep the sleep of peace.

1

TO MISFORTUNE.

MISFORTUNE, I am young, my chin is bare,

And I have wonder'd much, when men have told How youth was free from sorrow and from care,

That thou shouldst dwell with me, and leave the old.

Sure dost not like me! Shrivell’d hag of bate,

My phiz, (and thanks to thee,) is sadly long ;

I am not either, beldam, over strong; Nor do I wish at all to be thy mate, For thou, sweet Fury, art my utter hate. Nay, shake not thus thy miserable pate, I am yet young, and do not like thy face; And, lest thou shouldst resume the wild-goose chase, I'll tell thee something all thy heat to assuage, -Thou wilt not hit my fancy in my age.

As thus oppress'd with many a heavy care,

(Though young, yet sorrowful), I turn my feet

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 dismay'd 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 phantasies 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 aëry 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 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 ecstacy.

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.

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 bright sphere shall 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.

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 gav'st 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 foretel 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.

FROM THE FRENCH OF M. DESBARREUX.

The judgments, Lord, are just; thou lov'st 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.

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