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Sure dost not like me!-Shrivell'd hag of hate,
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 should’st 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 aş 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.
EMBLEM of life ! see changeful April sail
In varying vest along the shadowy skies,
Now bidding Summer's softest zephyrs rise,
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 even 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 visions 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
TU 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 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'erour 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 gavest the bitter cup; I bow to thy behest, and drink it up.
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 foretell the day
Of death, to those good men who fall thy prey, O let the aerial 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. DESBARREAUX.
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. 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!