SONNETS. 131 



Yet I am sad while all beside is gay ; 



Yet still I weep o'er thy deserted mound. 

 Oh ? that like thee I might bid sorrow cease, 

 And 'neath the green-sward sleep — the sleep of peace. 



TO MISFORTUXE. 



Misfortune, I am young, — my chin is bare, 



And I have wondered much when men have told 

 How youth was free from sorrow and from care, 



That thou shouidst dwell with me, and leave the old. 

 Sure dost not like me ! — Shrivelled hag of hate, 



My phiz, and thanks to thee, is sadly long ; 



I am not either, Beldame, over strong ; 

 Nor do I wish at all to be thy mate, 

 For thou, sweet Fury, art my utter hate, 

 Nay, shake not thus thy miserable pate ; 

 I am yet young, and do not like thy face ; 

 And least thou shouidst resume the wild-goose chase, 

 I'll tell thee something all thy heat to assuage, 

 Thou wilt not hit my fancy in my age. 



As thus oppressed with many a heavy care, 

 (Though young yet sorrowful), I turn my feet 

 To the dark woodland, — longing much to greet 

 The form of peace, if chance she sojourn there ; 

 Deep thought and dismal, verging to despair, 



Fills my sad breast ; and tired with this vain coil, 

 I shrink dismayed before life's upland toil. 

 And as amid the leaves the evening air, 

 Whispers still melody, — I think ere long. 



When I no more can hear, these woods will speak ; 

 And then a sad smile plays upon my cheek, 

 And mournful fantasies upon me throng. 

 And I do ponder with most strange delight, 

 On the calm slumbers of the dead man's night. 



