VIII. AND must thou go, and must we part! Thy sex is fickle,-when away, Some happier youth may win thy IX. SONNET. WHEN I sit musing on the checquer'd past, When that was all my wealth.-'Tis true my breast 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, Thron'd in dark clouds, inflexible * The native pride of my much injur❜d heart. X. WHEN high romance o'er every wood and stream, To their light morrice by the restless surge. The vagrant Fancy spreads no more her wiles, XI. HUSH'D is the lyre-the hand that swept The low and pensive wires, Robb'd of its cunning, from the task retires. Yes it is still-the lyre is still; The spirit which its slumbers broke, Hath pass'd away,-and that weak hand that woke, Its forest melodies hath lost its skill. Yet I would press you to my lips once more, Ye have beguil❜d the hours of infancy, * XII. ONCE more, and yet once more, I give unto my harp a dark-woven lay; I heard the waters roar, I heard the flood of ages pass away. Noting, grey chronicler! the silent years; I saw thee rise,-I saw the scroll complete, Thou spakest, and at thy feet, The universe gave way. |