SONNET TO THE SAME,

WITH TRENCH'S POEMS.

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TAKE with thee, Sister, to thy lone retreat
These breathings of a thoughtful Poet's mind,
One in whose spirit heavenly love, combined
With earth's affections, blends in union meet.
Love him, and fear him not; he will not cheat
Thy trusting fancy with unsure delight;
Nor turn to sickly moods of sullen spite
The grief, that seeks in verse a refuge sweet.
With every feeling of the common day

The song shall harmonize: to thoughts, that tend
Beyond this vale of sense, his words shall lend

Fit voice and when thy Country far away

:

Swells at thy breast, to him thy care impart,-
He shall interpret for thee thy full heart.

F

STANZAS TO THE SAME, AT ST. HELENA,

WITH MOULTRIE'S POEMS.

SISTER! to thee a gift I send,
Though small, yet rich in worth;
The page, whereon my Poet-friend
Has pour'd his spirit forth.

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A welcome gift to thee, I guess,

For thou hast loved full long
His soft and mellow tenderness,

His easy-flowing song.

Now in his fancy's noon serene

"Twill be a joy to rest,

And on its warm and balmy green

Recline thy yearning breast.

The themes he dwells on, are the ties

To which the exile clings;

Home, friendship, kindred sympathies,

All dear and sacred things.

And when thou hear'st, by wondrous art,

The caves of verse repeat

The changeful music of thy heart,

In echoes doubly sweet;

'Twill cheer thee, as the kindly tone Of some familiar voice

Breaks on us in our musings lone,

And makes our griefs rejoice

ΤΟ

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It is not in thy sight

That the foes of peace have power; They shrink before thy gentle might, And shun the charmed hour.

For while I breathe the balm

Of thy sweet and saintly voice,

And bathe me in thy forehead's balm,
How can I but rejoice?

But when the light is o'er,

And the vision past away,

And my waking eyes look out once more

On the cold and sunless day;

I feel like one who goes

From a home of light and love,

When the earth is pale and chill with snows,

And the heaven is dark above.

THE RAIN IS FALLING.

THE rain is falling sluggishly, the night is sad and

still,

My weary soul is waning with thoughts of woe and

ill;

The earth is cold beneath me, the heavens are black

with fear;

My sleepless heart is calling thee: Oh! would that thou wert here!

Oh! would that thou wert here, with thy brow so calm and high,

Thy smile of meek affection, thy undeceiving eye; By the worm of remorse, by the hell of a peaceless home,

By the madness of suspense, beloved, haste and come!