Who, when Henry reasoned with him calmly, asked,
"If he did not feel for him."
"Do I not feel!" The doubt is keen as steel.
Yea, I do feel-most exquisitely feel;
My heart can weep, when from my downcast eye
I chase the tear, and stem the rising sigh:
Deep buried there I close the rankling dart,
And smile the most when heaviest is my
On this I act-whatever pangs surround,
'Tis magnanimity to hide the wound.
When all was new, and life was in its spring,
I liv'd an unlov'd solitary thing;
Even then I learnt to bury deep from day,
The piercing cares that wore my youth away.
Even then I learnt for others' cares to feel,
Even then I wept I had not power to heal;
Even then, deep-sounding through the nightly gloom,
I heard the wretched's groan, and mourn'd the wretched's
doom.
friends in youth?—The midnight fire— The silent moon-beam, or the starry choir; To these I 'plain'd, or turn'd from outer sight, To bless my lonely taper's friendly light;
I never yet could ask, howe'er forlorn,
For vulgar pity mixt with vulgar scorn;
The sacred source of woe I never ope,
My breast's my coffer, and my God's my hope.
But that I do feel, time, my friend, will shew,
Though the cold croud the secret never know;
With them I laugh-yet when no eye can see,
I weep for nature, and I weep for thee.
Yes, thou did'st wrong me, * * *; I fondly thought,
In thee I'd found the friend my heart had sought;
I fondly thought that thou could'st pierce the guise,
And read the truth that in my bosom lies;
I fondly thought ere Time's last days were gone,
Thy heart and mine had mingled into one!
Yes-and they yet will mingle. Days and years
Will fly, and leave us partners in our tears:
We then shall feel that friendship has a power,
To soothe affliction in her darkest hour;
Time's trial o'er, shall clasp each other's hand,
And wait the passport to a better land.
Half past 11 o'clock at night.
YET once more, and once more, awake, my harp,
From silence and neglect-one lofty strain;
Lofty, yet wilder than the winds of Heaven,
And speaking mysteries, more than words can tell,
I ask of thee; for I, with hymnings high,
Would join the dirge of the departing year.
Yet with no wintry garland from the woods,
Wrought of the leafless branch, or ivy sear,
Wreathe I thy tresses, dark December! now;
Me higher quarrel calls, with loudest song,
And fearful joy, to celebrate the day
Of the Redeemer.-Near two thousand suns
Have set their seals upon the rolling lapse
Of generations, since the day-spring first
Beamed from on high!-Now to the mighty mass
Of that increasing aggregate, we add
One unit more. Space, in comparison,
How small, yet mark'd with how much misery;
Wars, famines, and the fury, Pestilence,
Over the nations hanging her dread scourge;
The oppressed, too, in silent bitterness,
Weeping their sufferance; and the arm of wrong
Forcing the scanty portion from the weak,
And steeping the lone widow's couch with tears.
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