“This cruel agony why longer bear? 
  “Death, death alone can all my pangs remove;
“Kind death will banish from my heart despair,
  “And when I live again—­I live to love!”—­

She said, and plung’d into the awful deep—­
  He saw her meet the fury of the wave;
He frantic saw! and darting to the steep
  With desp’rate anguish, sought her wat’ry grave.

He clasp’d her dying form, he shar’d her sighs,
  He check’d the billow rushing on her breast;
She felt his dear embrace—­her closing eyes
  Were fix’d on Alfred, and her death was blest.—­

SONNET,

To EXPRESSION.

Expression, child of soul!  I fondly trace
  Thy strong enchantments, when the poet’s lyre,
  The painter’s pencil catch thy sacred fire,
And beauty wakes for thee her touching grace—­
But from this frighted glance thy form avert
  When horrors check thy tear, thy struggling sigh,
  When frenzy rolls in thy impassion’d eye,
Or guilt sits heavy on thy lab’ring heart—­
Nor ever let my shudd’ring fancy bear
  The wasting groan, or view the pallid look
  Of him[A] the Muses lov’d—­when hope forsook
His spirit, vainly to the Muses dear! 
For charm’d with heav’nly song, this bleeding breast,
Mourns the blest power of verse could give despair no rest.—­

[A] Chatterton.

THE END.