SONNET. In gravest toils, at war with phantasy, 6 But now my crescent boat' erects her mast, And braves once more the doubtful sea and sky: B EPITHALAMIUM. DEC. 18, 1834. INTRODUCTORY STANZAS. I. Í STAND upon the verge of middle age, My five and thirtieth year well nigh complete ; Half way already on Life's pilgrimageHere let me rest awhile my way-worn feet, And cherish recollections, sad yet sweet, Of the long distance I have travell'd o'er; The present and the past together meet In my mind's eye;-the future lies beforeVast, void, oh how unlike the dream-throng'd days of yore! II. Vast, void, and dim and dark;—and yet therein Confused and shadowy phantoms I descry Of joy and grief, each struggling hard to win My future life the prize for which they vie Ah me! how that is throng'd, from first to last, With bright and beauteous shapes, though fading now full fast. III. Childhood with all its joys-how long departed! Boyhood and youth fantastically bright, When, led by love and hope, I roam'd light- Through an ideal world of wild delight— morn, Majestically rising, puts to flight The last dim shapes of lingering twilight born: Wedlock-whose sober bliss laughs Fancy's joys To to scorn. IV. A few years pass, and lo! the scene is changed; V. And bright eyed children gambol round my knees, |