Storm had been on the hills. The day had worn As if a sleep upon the hours had crept; And the dark clouds that gather'd at the morn In dull, impenetrable masses slept, And the wept leaves hung droopingly, and all Was like the mournful aspect of a pall. Suddenly on the horizon's edge, a blue And delicate line, as of a pencil, lay, And, as it wider and intenser grew, The darkness removed silently away, And, with the splendor of a God, broke through The perfect glory of departing day-- So, when his stormy pilgrimage is o'er, Will light upon the dying Christian pour. SONNET. Elegance floats about thee like a dress, Melting the airy motion of thy form Into one swaying grace, and loveliness, Like a rich tint that makes a picture warm, Is lurking in the chesnut of thy tress, Enriching it, as moonlight after storm Mingles dark shadows into gentleness. A beauty that bewilders like a spell Reigns in thine eye's clear hazel, and thy brow So pure in vein'd transparency doth tell How spiritually beautiful art thou-- A temple where angelic love might dwell. Life in thy presence were a thing to keep, Like a gay dreamer clinging to his sleep. SONNET. Beautiful robin! with thy feathers red Contrasting sweetly with the soft green tree, Making thy little flights as thou art led By things that tempt a simple one like thee-- I would that thou couldst warble me to tears As lightly as the birds of other years. Idly to lie beneath an April sun, Pressing the perfume from the tender grass; To watch a joyous rivulet leap on With the clear tinkle of a music glass, And as I saw the early robin pass, To hear him thro' his little compass run-- Hath been a joy that I shall no more know Before I to my better portion go. SONNET. Exquisite Laura! with thy pouting lip, And the arch smile that makes me constant so-- Tempting me still like a dull bee to sip The flower I should have left so long ago-- Beautiful Laura! who art just so fair That I can think thee lovely when alone, And still art not so wonderfully rare That I could never find a prettier one-- Spirited Laura! laughing, weeping, crying In the same breath, and gravest with the gay-- So wild, that Cupid ever shoots thee flying, And knows his archery is thrown away-- Inconstant as I am, I cannot yet Break thy sweet fetter, exquisite coquette! SONNET.