"How soothing to the soul the shade Which evening spreads around! How bright the dewy gems that braid The foliage of the ground. No sound is heard thro' ether wide, From hill or coppice green, Save where the streamlet seems to chide The stillness of the scene. Contagion catches on the soul, And lulls e'en grief to rest; No more contending passions roll Along the troubled breast. I seem a moment to have lost The sense of former pain; As if my peace had ne'er been crost, Or joy could spring again. But ah! 'tis there!--the pang is there; Maria breathes no more! So fond, so constant, kind, and fair, Her reign of love is o'er. No more through scenes like these shall we Together fondly stray; Till night itself would seem to me More genial than the day. I feel the cold night's gathering gloom Infect my throbbing breast; It tells me that the friendly tomb Alone can give me rest. I then shall sleep the sleep serene, Where she so long has slept; Nor be the wretch I long have been, Nor weep as I have wept." THE CHURCHYARD. "Here, then, my weary head shall rest, Here weep and sigh alone; And press the marble to my breast, And kiss the senseless stone. I'm calmer now--a silv'ry sound Is whisp'ring in my ear; That tells me this is sacred ground, And she is hov'ring near. Celestial stillness reigns around, Serenely beats my breast; Maria's spirit treads this ground, And hushes me to rest. I see Maria hov'ring there-- She waves her wings of light; Angelic music fills the air, And charms the ear of night. Stay, lovely maiden, longer stay, And bless thy lover's eyes; And do not soar so fast away To seek thy native skies. 'Tis gone--the lovely vision's gone! And night's dim shades prevail; Again, I feel myself alone, And pour my fruitless wail. I seem like one who madly raves Among the silent dead; And start to hear the hollow graves Re-echo to my tread. But I shall soon forget my woes, And dry my ev'ry tear, And rest as unconcern'd as those Who sleep serenely here." So far from having a salutary effect upon the mind of Charles, time seems only to have increased the despondency that had enveloped and clouded the reasoning faculties of our poet. We find, in a subsequent part of the volume, the following lines, which show that his mind was giving way under the pressure of acute distress:-- "Ah! tell me not of busy life-- Its bustling folly--joyless strife-- Can these dispel my care? No--let me seek some cavern drear, Where not a sound can meet my ear, But groans of death, and shrieks of fear, The music of despair?