And, dying, smiling, gilds the west;
Leaving a glory where it set,

As if it had not vanished yet.

The sun, that sets, again shall rise,
To shed new joy o'er earth and skies;
But where is she, who o'er distress
An urn of purest balm could pour?
Earth holds one gentle soul the less,
And heaven one angel more!

But gazing on those speaking lips,
That tranquil brow, those meek blue eyes,
I could not think that death's eclipse
Had darkened life's celestial skies.

Some burdens are in truth so great,
We cannot realize their weight.

Some pangs have such excess of pain
To paralyse both heart and brain,
That time must pass ere we can feel
The crushing load, the rending wheel;
To feel, oh God! and pray in vain
That soul and sense would sleep again.

Wife-children-foster-brother-gone!

A fated wretch I stand alone,

With none to guide-with none to cheer;

Exiled from hope, and dead to fear.

They say there is an Eastern Tree,
Beneath whose fatal shade

No living thing one hour can be,

But it must pine and fade.

No bird can warble from its spray,

No flower can bloom beneath.

If there the stag his limbs should lay,

He courts a certain death.

Nought, save the deadly-venomed snake,

A covert of that tree can make.
Like that accursed tree am I;

Life seeks my presence but to die!
Nought can a shelter find with me,
Save venomed crime and misery.

Yet, gentle thoughts to me are left;
Each desert hath its grateful well;
That spirit is not all bereft

Where hallowed memories dwell.

The memory of my Angel Three
Steals like a spell from Heaven o'er me,
As flowers diffuse their fragrant breath
Through the dark crater's vale of death.
Oft have I thought that memory given
To lead this erring soul to Heaven;
For when those Angels walk with me,
The Curse and all its phantoms flee,
Abashed from things so pure and fair,
As sunbeams purge the murky air.
But when they fade, once more the power
Of evil hath its vengeful hour,
And mocking spectres, grim and vast,
Drag back my spirit to the past,

And quench in memory's wildest night·
My gleams of Heaven so briefly bright.

But why should I retrace a past
Blighted by crime's simoon-like blast?
Look on my face! 'twill tell of pain,

For which a thousand words are vain.

The splintered wall, the shattered keep, Where years of buried memories sleep, While human fingers fail to trace

The record of each ruined place,

Can give the rapt, inquiring eye

A light to read their story by,

And breathe a tale of shot and shell
Louder than lay or chronicle.

For every wrinkle on this brow,
And bleaching hair upon this head,
Conceive a bitter pang-and thou

Part of mine agony hast read.
The heart alone its trouble knows,
For there is sorrow passing speech;
The history of human woes

Is written where no eye can reach-
Save His, who made that secret leaf,
Traced with the iron pen of grief.

Yes! I am childless, friendless now-
A trunk without one gladsome leaf;
But they, who in their guilt will plough,

Must reap in madness and in grief.

"Twas meet that I should plundered be
Of all the joy that man can know;
For mercy pled in vain with me

Amid thy rocks, accurst Glencoe !

'Be sure your sin will find you out!'
Just God of Heaven! Thy words are true.
O'er land and sea I've roved about,

But never peace, nor comfort knew,
Since shame to every warrior stout!
My sword in murder's cause I drew.

Father! the curse was big with wrath,
When those Three Altars, fed with care,
Lay spoiled and shivered in my path,
No flame of life bright-burning there.
Then, in my presence, shadowy, pale
As floating mist in mountain-vale

At evening grey, a Spirit stood!

Her scowling brow was dark with blood. I knew her by a crimsoned sword;

I knew her by a sleepless word;