Yes, 'twill be over soon.--This sickly dream Of life will vanish from my feverish brain; And death my wearied spirit will redeem From this wild region of unvaried pain. Yon brook will glide as softly as before, Yon landscape smile, yon golden harvest grow. Yon sprightly lark on mountain wing will soar When Henry's name is heard no more below. I sigh when all my youthful friends caress, They laugh in health, and future evils brave; Them shall a wife and smiling children bless, While I am mouldering in the silent grave. God of the just, Thou gavest the bitter cup; I bow to thy behest, and drink it up. SONNET TO CONSUMPTION. Gently, most gently, on thy victim's head. Consumption, lay thine hand!--let me decay Like the expiring lamp, unseen, away, And softly go to slumber with the dead. And if 'tis true what holy men have said, That strains angelic oft foretell the day Of death to those good men who fall thy prey, O let the aërial music round my bed, Dissolving sad in dying symphony, Whisper the solemn warning in mine ear; That I may bid my weeping friends good-by Ere I depart upon my journey drear: And, smiling faintly on the painful past, Compose my decent head, and breathe my last. SONNET. TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OF M. DESBARREAUX. Thy judgments, Lord, are just; thou lovest to wear The face of pity and of love divine; But mine is guilt--thou must not, canst not spare, While heaven is true, and equity is thine. Yes, oh my God!--such crimes as mine, so dread, Leave but the choice of punishment to thee; Thy interest calls for judgment on my head, And even thy mercy dares not plead for me! Thy will be done, since 'tis thy glory's due, Did from mine eyes the endless torrents flow; Smite--it is time--though endless death ensue, I bless the avenging hand that lays me low. But on what spot shall fall thine anger's flood, That has not first been drench'd in Christ's atoning blood? SONNET. When I sit musing on the chequer'd past (A term much darken'd with untimely woes), My thoughts revert to her, for whom still flows The tear, though half disown'd; and binding fast Pride's stubborn cheat to my too yielding heart, I say to her she robb'd me of my rest, When that was all my wealth. 'Tis true my breast Received from her this wearying, lingering smart; Yet, ah! I cannot bid her form depart; Though wrong'd, I love her--yet in anger love, For she was most unworthy.--Then I prove Vindictive joy; and on my stern front gleams, Throned in dark clouds, inflexible.... The native pride of my much injured heart. SONNET.