But wilt thou cure thine heart 10 Of love, and all its smart-- Then die, dear, die! ’Tis deeper, sweeter, Than on a rose-bank to lie dreaming With folded eye; 15 And then alone, amid the beaming Of love’s stars, thou’lt meet her In Eastern sky. _Thomas Lovell Beddoes._ CCXXXII _LINES WRITTEN IN MY OWN ALBUM._ Fresh clad from heaven in robes of white, A young probationer of light, Thou wert, my soul, an album bright, A spotless leaf; but thought, and care, And friend and foe, in foul and fair, 5 Have ‘written strange defeatures’ there; And Time with heaviest hand of all, Like that fierce writing on the wall, Hath stamped sad dates--he can’t recall. And error, gilding worst designs-- 10 Like speckled snake that strays and shines-- Betrays his path by crooked lines; And vice hath left his ugly blot; And good resolves, a moment hot, Fairly began--but finished not; 15 And fruitless, late remorse doth trace-- Like Hebrew lore a backward pace-- Her irrecoverable race. Disjointed numbers; sense unknit; Huge reams of folly; shreds of wit; 20 Compose the mingled mass of it. My scalded eyes no longer brook Upon this ink-blurred thing to look-- Go, shut the leaves, and clasp the book. _Charles Lamb._ CCXXXIII _SONNET._ October’s gold is dim--the forests rot, The weary rain falls ceaseless, while the day Is wrapt in damp. In mire of village-way The hedgerow leaves are stampt, and, all forgot, The broodless nest sits visible in the thorn. 5 Autumn, among her drooping marigolds, Weeps all her garnered fields and empty folds And dripping orchards, plundered and forlorn. The season is a dead one, and I die! No more, no more for me the spring shall make 10 A resurrection in the earth, and take The death from out her heart--O God, I die! The cold throat-mist creeps nearer, till I breathe Corruption. Drop, stark night, upon my death! _David Gray._ CCXXXIV _SONNET._