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.

YES, 'twill be over soon.-This sickly dream
Of life will vanish from my feverish brain;
And death my wearied spirit will redeem

From this wild region of unvary'd pain.
Yon brook will glide as softly as before,-

Yon landscape smile,-yon golden harvest grow,→ Yon sprightly lark on mounting wing will soar, When Henry's name is heard no more below, I sigh when all my youthful friends caress,

They laugh in health, and future evils brave; Them shall a wife and smiling children bless,

While I am mouldering in my silent grave. God of the just,-Thou gavest the bitter cup; I bow to thy behest, and drink it up.

TO CONSUMPTION.

GENTLY, most gently, on thy victim's head,
Consumption, lay thine hand!-Let me decay,
Like the expiring lamp, unseen, away,
And softly go to slumber with the dead.
And if 'tis true what holy men have said,

That strains angelic oft foretell the day

Of death, to those good men who fall thy prey, O let the aërial music round my bed,

Dissolving sad in dying symphony,

Whisper the solemn warning in mine ear;
That I may bid my weeping friends good b'ye,
Ere I depart upon my journey drear:
And smiling faintly on the painful past,
Compose my decent head, and breathe my last.

2

Version from Der Bosomy

THY judgments, Lord, are just; thou lov'st to wear
The face of pity, and of love divine;

But mine is guilt-thou must not, can'st not, spare,
While Heaven is true, and equity is thine.
Yes, oh, my God!—such crimes as mine, so dread,
Leave but the choice of punishment to thee;
Thy interest calls for judgment on my head,
And even thy mercy dares not plead for me!
Thy will be done-since 'tis thy glory's due,

Did from mine eyes the endless torrents flow;
Smite it is time-though endless death ensue,
I bless the avenging hand that lays me low.
But on what spot shall fall thine anger's flood,

That has not first been drench'd in Christ's atoning blood?