From weak'ning Child-bed scarcely rais'd,
When by a raging Fever seiz'd,
Death star'd me in the Face;
I saw the Tyrant, 'fore me stand,
His Scythe held firm in either Hand,
To finish my sad Race.
But Time appear'd, and said, that Fate,
Wou'd give my Life a longer Date,
And shew'd my Glass renew'd;
Said Death, " Then I'll to Pery go,
" His fleeting Soul now waits the Blow. "
But Time his Steps pursu'd,

Again he bid him stay his Hand,
For Pery , by Divine Command,
Was as a Blessing giv'n!

( " De quel nom te nommer? " )

How shall I note thee, line of troubled years,
Which mark existence in our little span?
One constant twilight in the heaven appears —
One constant twilight in the mind of man!

Creed, hope, anticipation and despair,
Are but a mingling, as of day and night;
The globe, surrounded by deceptive air,
Is all enveloped in the same half-light.

And voice is deadened by the evening breeze,

Yea! even here as everywhere, let man
Worship his Recreator, and the world's
Made perfect by preliminary fire.

O Thou, who in the inaccessible depths
Dwellest, of all central Being, and of whom
We can but see the star dust of Thy feet,
Left on Heaven's roads; from world, nathless, to world,
From firmament to firmament, can we trace
Each soul his individual link with Thee;
The pure invisible touch which makes us Thine,
The something more substantial than the sun,
More general than the void, yet nested here,

Friend! many a year hath passed
Since last I clasped thine hand —
It may be we shall meet no more
Till in the Heavenly land;
Still grief can ne'er erase, nor joy
Eclipse, the bliss hath been;
And us one ceaseless, burning thought
Still oscillates between.

And yet another name there is, —
The fates ask always three —
With thine, dear friend, and mine conjoined,
In endless unity;
Yet all are severed, as by death,
At Destiny's command;
And though a thousand read these lines
But twain shall understand.

(“Avant que mes chansons.”)

Ere yet my youthful songs beloved,
Tender and true, keen pangs had proved
Of the base world's ingratitude,
Far from the bitter blasts of reason,
How bloomed they in how bright a season
With sweetest scents and rays endued!

From singing branches of life's tree,
With a weird ghostly melody,
Now, ere wild winter's come, they're riven.
East, South, North, West, they're whirled and scattered,
Each petal pure with mud bespattered,
By wind or water drown'd or driven.

When night's dark mantle veil'd the seas,
And Nature's self was hush'd to sleep;
When gently blew the midnight breeze,
Louisa fought the boundless deep.

On a lone beach, in wild despair,
She sat recluse from soft repose;
Her bitter wailings rent the air,
And sad were fair Louisa's woes.

Three years she nurs'd the pleasing thought,
Her love — her Henry — would return;
When, ah! the fatal news was brought,

Tho' vain the tributary tears we shed
For friends in exile, or untimely dead;
When men distinguish'd for their merit die,
The muses love to sing their elegy;
In humble strains the mournful theme pursue,
And give to friendship rigid virtue's due.

What honest nature dictates void of art,
With eyes o'erflowing and a bleeding heart,
Free from the labour'd ornament of verse,
Shall pay the tribute due to Bingham 's hearse.
Oh could these lines (illustrious shade) restore
Life to those virtues, which are now no more!

( " Le soleil s'est couche. " )

The sun set this evening in masses of cloud,
The storm comes to-morrow, then calm be the night,
Then the Dawn in her chariot refulgent and proud,
Then more nights, and still days, steps of Time in his flight,
The days shall pass rapid as swifts on the wing,
O'er the face of the hills, o'er the face of the seas,
O'er streamlets of silver, and forests that ring

Say! what is there so terrible in Death;
That dastard Nature shrinks at it's Approach,
And basely trembles at the Dissolution
That parts the heav'nly Particle from Clay?
From that poor ailing Matter, that confines
The Breath of God! from mingling with the Saints?
'Tis want of Love — of that Seraphic Love
Which we should nourish for a blest Redeemer!
'Tis want of Confidence, and inward Light,
To reconcile, and fit us for the Change.
We've not those Longings, that the Chosen have
To be united to, and serve the Lord;

" Oh! let me speak it with a Roman spirit!
We were receiv'd, like undone prodigals
By curs'd ingrateful stewards, with cold looks,
Who still got all by those poor wretches ruin:
Like malefactors at the hands of justice.
If thus receiv'd! How paid our long arrears?
Why — as entrusted misers pay the rights
Of helpless orphans, or the widow's tears.
O soldier! for to thee, to thee, I speak it,
Bawds for the drudgery of citizens wives
Would better pay debilitated stallions."