Spurn this world for a better home,
Where his wings cannot soar;

Where chance and change shall never come,
And Time shall be no more!

"FRIENDSHIP'S OFFERING." 1828.

LOVE AND SORROW.

MOURN not, sweet maid, and do not try

To rob me of my Sorrow;

It is the only friend whom I
Have left, 'midst my captivity,
To bid my heart good morrow.

I would not chase him from my heart,
For he is Love's own brother:
And each has learn'd his fellow's part

So aptly, that 'tis no mean art

To know one from the other.

Thus Love will fold his arms, and moan,
And sigh, and weep like Sorrow;
And Sorrow has caught Love's soft tone,
And mix'd his arrows with his own,

And learn'd his smile to borrow.

Only one mark of difference they

Preserve, which leaves them never;
Young Love has wings, and flies away,
While Sorrow, once received, will stay,

The Soul's sad guest for ever.

"FRIENDSHIP'S OFFERING." 1829.

THE NATAL STAR.

A Scene from a Manuscript Drama. SAVONA on a Couch. RINALDO attending him.

Savona.

Dear Rinaldo !

To thee these seem strange fancies, but I tell thee,
There's not a pulse beats in the human frame,
That is not govern'd by the Stars above us;
The blood that fills our veins, in all it's ebb
And flow is sway'd by them, as certainly
As are the restless tides of the salt sea
By the resplendent Moon; and at thy birth,
Thy Mother's eye gazed not more steadfastly
On thee, than did the Star that rules thy fate,
Showering upon thy head an influence,

Malignant or benign.

Rinaldo.

Nay, nay, Savona,

These are but dreams: the reveries of greybeards,

And curious schoolmen.

Savona.

Pr'ythee, my Rinaldo,

Unclose the casement, that my eyes may once,
If only once, again read in that volume,
Whose treasured wisdom is far, far beyond
All that the painful industry of man

Heaps on his loaded shelves.

[RINALDO opens the casement.

There, there they shine!

Oh! ye bright partners of my midnight watches!

Ye glorious torches, by whose heavenly light
We read the volume of futurity!

Ye golden sanctuaries of knowledge, safe
And inaccessible, 'midst all the change,
The ebb and flow of mortal accident!

When the vast deluge spread it's mighty wings
Over the earth, ye track'd a path of light
On the abyss, o'er which the hallow'd ark
Floated in safety; when proud Babel fell,
And accents strange to human ears were dropt
From human lips, ye spake one language still,
And told the same bright tale; when Omar gave
The Alexandrian wonder to the flames,
Ye spread your ample volume o'er his head
In broad derision; bidding him advance
His torches, and add fuel to his pile,

To shrivel up your shining leaves, and melt
The glittering clasps of gold that guarded them!

Rinaldo. Savona, check this ardour; your weak frame

Will sink beneath it.

Savona.

'Tis written yonder.

Nay, my friend, 'tis vain.

When the hand of man

Can tear the shining planets from their spheres

Then may he work my cure.

Rinaldo.

I behold nought

But a bright starry night; betokening

Aught but disease and death.

Savona.

See'st thou yon cluster

Of stars, that glitter right above that clump

Of stately pines?

Rinaldo.

I mark it steadfastly.

Savona. And mark'st thou in the midst one Star, that

seems

The centre of the group?

Rinaldo.

Yes; 'tis a Star

Of a peculiar brightness, soft and mild

It's light, yet beautiful as Hesper's, when

The rest fade from him; yet the neighbouring orbs,
Larger, and all of gloomier disks, appear
T'o'erwhelm it's beams; while, station'd as it is,
In the most stormy point of Heaven, e'en now
On this bright night, light mists and vapours battle,
As 'twere around it's head; and one black cloud
Comes sailing towards it from the north, and soon
Will blot it from my sight.

Savona.

There! there, Rinaldo!

Hast thou not in those few unconscious words,
Summ'd up Savona's life? Was I not born
With shining hopes, wealth, friends, and,--so
The world said,-talents? Did not envious Fate
Cross my bright path? malignant foes, false friends,
Untoward accident, and blighted love,

Rain misery on my head? and am I not,
Now, in the noontide of my life, Rinaldo,
Stretch'd, with a broken heart, and faltering limbs,
Upon a bed of grief, while, rapidly,

Death, like a monster, lured from far, comes on
To grapple with his prey?

Rinaldo.

Alas! alas!

Sorrow, indeed, has mingled in your cup

Of Life, but sure your ills were not so strangely

Piled higher than the common lot of man,

To weigh you down thus soon.

Savona.

True, my Rinaldo;

True, not so strange; so very strange. Crush'd hopes, Blighted affections, benefits forgot,

A broken heart and an untimely grave,

These form no wondrous tale: 'tis trite and common,

The lot of many, most of all, of those

Who learn to crowd into a few brief

years

Ages of feeling; as the o'er charg'd pulse

Throbs high, and throbs no more!

Rinaldo.

Dear friend, I hoped