There was a touching paleness on her face, Which chased her smiles, but such sweet union made Of pensive majesty and heavenly grace, As if a passing cloud had veil'd her with its shade; Then knew I how the blessed ones above Gaze on each other in their perfect bliss, For never yet was look of mortal love So pure, so tender, so serene as this. The softest glance fond woman ever sent To him she loved, would cold and rayless be Compared to this, which she divinely bent Earthward, with angel sympathy, on me, That seem'd with speechless tenderness to say, "Who takes from me my faithful friend away?" -E.(New Monthly Magazine.) SESTINA VII. HE DESPAIRS OF ESCAPING FROM HIS TORMENTS. Count the ocean's finny droves; Count the twinkling host of stars, Round the night's pale orb that moves; Count the groves' wing'd choristers; Count each verdant blade that grows; Counted then will be my woes. . . . . . . . . Sad my nights; from morn till eve, Tenanting the woods, I sigh: But, ere I shall cease to grieve, Ocean's vast bed shall be dry, Suns their light from moons shall gain, And spring wither on each plain. Pensive, weeping, night and day, From this shore to that I fly, Changeful as the lunar ray; And, when evening veils the sky, Then my tears might swell the floods, Then my sighs might bow the woods! Towns I hate, the shades I love; For relief to yon green height, Where the rill resounds, I rove At the grateful calm of night; There I wait the day's decline, For the welcome moon to shine. Song, that on the wood-hung stream In the silent hour wert born, Witness'd but by Cynthia's beam, Soon as breaks to-morrow's morn, Thou shalt seek a glorious plain, There with Laura to remain! --Nott. II. To Laura in Death. SONNET 1. ON THE ANNOUNCEMENT OF THE DEATH OF LAURA. Woe for the 'witching look of that fair face! The port where ease with dignity combined! Woe for those accents' that each savage mind To softness tuned, to noblest thoughts the base! And the sweet smile, from whence the dart I trace, Which now leaves death my only hope behind! Exalted soul, most fit on thrones to 've shined, But that too late she came this earth to grace! For you I still must burn, and breathe in you; For I was ever yours; of you bereft, Full little now I reck all other care. With hope and with desire you thrill'd me through, When last my only joy on earth I left-- But caught by winds each word was lost in air. --Anon, Ox., 1795. SONNET XLII. THE SPRING ONLY RENEWS HIS GRIEF.