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FROM AN ITALIAN SONNET.
LOVE, under Friendship's vesture white,
But now as Rage the God appears!
As thro' the hedge-row shade the violet steals,
CAGED in old woods, whose reverend echoes wake
Oft sighs to turn the unrelenting key.
In vain! the nurse that rusted relic wears,
WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT.
WHILE thro' the broken pane the tempest sighs, And my step falters on the faithless floor, Shades of departed joys around me rise,
With many a face that smiles on me no more; With many a voice that thrills of transport gave, Now silent as the grass that tufts their grave!
TO AN OLD OAK.
TRUNK of a Giant now no more!
Once did thy limbs to heaven aspire;
Once, by a track untried before,
Strike as resolving to explore
Realms of infernal fire.*
Round thee, alas, no shadows move! From thee no sacred murmurs breathe! Yet within thee, thyself a grove,
Once did the eagle scream above,
And the wolf howl beneath.
There once the red-cross knight reclined, His resting place his house of prayer; And, when the death-bell smote the wind From towers long fled by human kind, He knelt and worshipped there!
Radice in Tartara tendit.-Virg.
Then Culture came, and days serene;
Father of many a forest deep,
Soon destined o'er the world to sweep,
Wont in the night of woods to dwell,
And, planting there the guardian-spell,
Of human sacrifice!
Thy singed top and branches bare
Now straggle in the evening-sky;
And the wan moon wheels round to glare On the long corse that shivers there
Of him who came to die!
WHEN by the green-wood side, at summer eve,