FROM AN ITALIAN SONNET.

LOVE, under Friendship's vesture white,
Laughs, his little limbs concealing;
And oft in sport, and oft in spite,
Like Pity meets the dazzled sight,
Smiles thro' his tears revealing.

But now as Rage the God appears!
He frowns, and tempests shake his frame !-
Frowning, or smiling, or in tears,
'Tis Love; and Love is still the same.

A CHARACTER.

As thro' the hedge-row shade the violet steals,
And the sweet air its modest leaf reveals;
Her softer charms, but by their influence known,
Surprise all hearts, and mould them to her own.

CAPTIVITY.

CAGED in old woods, whose reverend echoes wake
When the hern screams along the distant lake,
Her little heart oft flutters to be free,

Oft sighs to turn the unrelenting key.

In vain! the nurse that rusted relic wears,
Nor moved by gold-nor to be moved by tears;
And terraced walls their black reflection throw
On the green-mantled moat that sleeps below.

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;
And village-sports, and garlands gay.
Full many a pathway crossed the green;
And maids and shepherd-youths were seen
To celebrate the May.

Father of many a forest deep,
Whence many a navy thunder-fraught!
Erst in thy acorn-cells asleep,

Soon destined o'er the world to sweep,
Opening new spheres of thought!

Wont in the night of woods to dwell,
The holy Druid saw thee rise;

And, planting there the guardian-spell,
Sung forth, the dreadful pomp to swell

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,
Poetic visions charm my closing eye;
And fairy-scenes, that Fancy loves to weave,
Shift to wild notes of sweetest minstrelsy;
'Tis thine to range in busy quest of prey,
Thy feathery antlers quivering with delight,
Brush from my lids the hues of heaven away,
And all is Solitude, and all is Night!