Why the halcyon hour delay, Lingering minister of peace; When each grief shall melt away, And each sigh of anguish cease? When my weary spirit free, Thro the seats of joy shall rove; And, entranced in ecstasy, Clasp in fond embrace my LOVE? Hark, her tender voice I hear, Borne along the hollow gale; HENRY, dry thy burning tear, "HENRY, cease thy mournful wail." No; 'twas but a fancied strain, But my sickening heart return ; "Till we meet, mý love, again, HENRY must forever mourn." Airy sprites! who, hovering round, Watch the slumbers of the dead, Guard this consecrated ground, Where MARIA rests her head. For, ye sprites, her soul was fair, As the morning's sparkling dew, Pure, as light, that kissed the air, Such be yet the grateful care, Which may sooth this aching heart Till in brighter realms, my FAIR, Till we meet no more to parts Come, MARIA, hither bend, Come, sweet angel of the sky, From thy seat of bliss descend, And thy HENRY's grief shall die. SONNET TO EVENING. MEEK evening, wafted on thy glowing breast, Spring's richest perfumes scent the tranquil air : Nor vain they strive to give his spirit rest, Who knows no solace from supreme despair. To me congenial swell these prospects rude, When deepening shades embrown the dashing tide; For here no dark unhallowed thoughts intrude, Where love and nature still with peace reside. Tho she has flown to death's unthinking sleep, And feel an anguish, which can ne'er depart; Yet here, VAUCLUSE, thy bard delights to rove, WILLIAM AND MARY. A LEGENDARY TALE, IN IMITATION OF THE OLD ENGLISH 2+ BALLAD. HARD is the lot of many poor, To work and drudge the livelong day, To weave the web, and wash the floor, With many an aching hand and sore, And scarcely have they time to pray. Yet have I seen this toilsome throng Endure, what you would weep to see; And yet no murmur broke their song, Right merrily they tripped along, For still the heart from care was free. |