SONNET.

WHEN last we parted, thou wert young and fair,
How beautiful let fond remembrance say!

Alas! since then, old time has stol'n away
Full thirty years, leaving my temples bare. —
So has it perish'd like a thing of air,

The dream of love and youth!--now both are grey, Yet still remembering that delightful day,

Tho' time with his cold touch has blanch'd my hair,
Tho' I have suffer'd many years of pain,

Since then; tho' I did never think to live
To hear that voice or see those eyes again,
I can a sad, but cordial greeting give,
And for thy welfare breathe as warm a pray'r,

As when I lov'd thee young and fair!

ON THE KING'S ILLNESS.

REST, rest, afflicted spirit, quickly pass

Thy hour of bitter suffering! Rest awaits thee,
There, where, the load of weary life laid down,
The peasant and the king repose together:
There peaceful sleep, thy quiet grave bedew'd
With tears of those who lov'd thee. - Not for thee,
In the dark chambers of the nether world,

Shall spectre kings rise from their burning thrones

And point the vacant seat, and scoffing say,
Art thou become like us? Oh not for thee;
For thou hadst human feelings, and hast liv'd
A man with men ; and kindly charities,
Even such as warm the cottage hearth, were thine.
And therefore falls the tear from eyes not used
To gaze on kings with admiration fond.

And thou hast knelt at meek religion's shrine

With no mock homage, and hast own'd her rights Sacred in every breast; and therefore rise, Affectionate, for thee, the orisons

And mingled prayers, alike from vaulted domes,

Whence, the loud organ peals, and raftered roofs Of humbler worship. - Still remembering this, A nation's pity and a nation's love

Linger beside thy couch, in this the day

Of thy sad visitation, veiling faults

Of erring judgment, and not will perverse.

Yet, oh that thou hadst clos'd the wounds of war!
That had been praise to suit a higher strain.
Farewell the years roll'd down the gulf of time!
Thy name has chronicled a long bright page
Of England's story, and perhaps the babe
Who opens, as thou closest thine, his eyes
On this eventful world, when aged grown,
Musing on times gone by, shall sigh and say,
Shaking his thin grey hairs, whiten'd with grief,
Our fathers' days were happy. Fare thee well!
My thread of life has even run with thine
For many a lustre, and thy closing day
I contemplate, not mindless of my own,
Nor to its call reluctant.

TO MRS.

ON RETURNING A FINE HYACINTH PLANT AFTER THE

BLOOM WAS OVER.

EVEN

as a cherish'd daughter leaves her home

Blushing and breathing sweets; her home, where, nurs'd With fond attendance every morn and eve,

She grew and flourish'd, and put forth her charms

In virgin purity; and to that home

From the polluted commerce of the world,

Returns with faded charms, forlorn and sad,

And soil'd and drooping locks in such sad plight

Send I your nurseling; breathing now no more
Ambrosial sweets, nor lifting her proud stem,
Rich with enamell'd flowers, to meet the gaze
Of raptur❜d florist, but return'd to lie
Low in the earth; yet, when the genial Spring
With new impulses thrills the swelling veins,
The plant may bloom again

not so the maid.

TO THE LARK.

MOUNT, child of Morning, mount and sing,

And gaily beat thy fluttering wing,

And sound thy shrill alarms:

Bath'd in the fountains of the dew
Thy sense is keen, thy joys are new;
The wide world opens to thy view,

And spreads its earliest charms.

Far shower'd around, the hill, the plain
Catch the glad impulse of thy strain,

And fling their veil aside;

While warm with hope and rapturous joy
Thy thrilling lay rings cheerily,

Love swells its notes, and liberty,

And youth's exulting pride.

G