hand. 
Alas! no victor-wreaths enzon’d his brow,
  But freedom long his hapless fate shall mourn;
Her holy tears shall nurse the laurel bough,
  Whose green leaves grace his consecrated urn. 
Nurs’d by these tears, that bough shall rise sublime,
And bloom triumphant ’mid the wrecks of time!

EPITAPH

ON MATILDA.

SACRED to pity! is uprais’d this stone,
The humble tribute of a friend unknown;
To grant the beauteous wreck its hallow’d claim,
And add to misery’s scroll another name. 
Poor, lost Matilda! now in silence laid
Within the early grave thy sorrows made,
Sleep on!—­his heart still holds thy image dear,
Who view’d, thro’ life, thy errors with a tear;
Who ne’er, with stoic apathy, repress’d
The heart-felt sigh for loveliness distress’d. 
That sigh for thee shall ne’er forget to heave;
’Tis all he now can give, or thou receive. 
When last I saw thee in thy envied bloom,
That promis’d health and joy for years to come,
Methought the lily, nature proudly gave,
Would never wither in th’untimely grave. 
Ah, sad reverse! too soon the fated hour
Saw the dire tempest ’whelm th’expanding flow’r? 
Then from thy tongue its music ceas’d to flow;
Thine eye forgot to gleam with aught but woe;
Peace fled thy breast; invincible despair
Usurp’d her seat, and struck his daggers there. 
Did not the unpitying world thy sorrows fly? 
And ah, what then was left thee—­but to die! 
Yet not a friend beheld thy parting breath,
Or mingled solace with the pangs of death: 
No priest proclaim’d the erring hour forgiv’n,
Or sooth’d thy spirit to its native heav’n: 
But Heaven, more bounteous, bade the pilgrim come,
And hovering angels hail’d their sister home. 
I, where the marble swells not, to rehearse
Thy hapless fate; inscribe my simple verse. 
Thy tale, dear shade, my heart essays to tell;
Accept its offering, while it heaves—­farewel!

SONNET.

TO PEACE.

Come long-lost blessing! heaven-lov’d seraph, haste,
  On pity’s wings upborne, a world’s wide woes
Invoke thy smiles extatic, long effac’d,
  Beneath the tear which all corrosive flows;
While reason shudders, let ambition weep,
  When wounding truth records what it has done: 
Records the hosts consign’d to death’s cold sleep,
  Conspicuous ’mid the pomp of conflicts won! 
Shall not the fiend relent, while groaning age
  Pours its deep sorrows o’er its offspring slain;
While sire-robb’d infants mourn the deathful rage,
  In many a penury enfeebled strain? 
Sweet maid, return! behold affliction’s tear,
And in my theme accept a nation’s prayer.

LOVE.

Love! what is love? a mere machine, a spring
For freaks fantastic, a convenient thing,
A point to which each scribbling wight must steer,
Or vainly hope for food or favor here,
A summer’s sigh, a winter’s wistful tale,
A sound at which th’untutor’d maid turns pale,
Her soft eyes languish and her bosom heaves,
And hope delights as fancy’s dream deceives.