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 should'st dwell with me, and leave the old.
Sure dost not like me! - Shrivell'd hag of hate,
My phiz, and thanks to thee, is sadly long;
I am not either, Beldame, 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 chace,
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, tir'd 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 tir'd frame resting on the earth's cold bed,
Hold ye your nightly vigils o'er his head,

And chaunt 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 extasy.

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, unmixt 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.